


He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts

by trashmouth



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Bad Parenting, Child Neglect, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Night Terrors, Panic Attacks, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Romance, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, Slow Burn, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 02:46:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12181386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashmouth/pseuds/trashmouth
Summary: Richie is like a supernova ― albeit beautiful, just a dying star that is already fated to become a black hole.orIT's dead and gone for good. IT's not coming back to get him. Why is Richie soscared?





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly idk what i'm doing i just wanted to write about my favorite losers and suffer a bit more  
> i'm kinda following the movie and partially ignoring the book, so pennywise's dead and a lot changes because of that
> 
> IMPORTANT THINGS TO KNOW:  
> \- it's richie centred, so we'll mostly get his view on things and short snippets of the losers'  
> \- i actually don't know how to trashmouth. i'll learn as i go lol  
> \- i'll add tags as i go, i believe (i'll try and warn y'all if there's any triggering content otherwise not mentioned)
> 
> english's not my mother tongue, so, you can call me out on my mistakes ;)

Reality settles in for Richie only _days_ after the final battle in the sewers. He's going normally through one of their English classes, one of the few the Losers who go to Derry's school share in common, watching Mrs. Patts talk with little to none interest and sketching mindlessly. It's quiet ― it's uncommonly quiet, without the Bowers gang, without Richie's own jokes, without no one particularly wishing to break the silence or cause any kind of chaos ―, and even inside Richie's head there's a low buzzing sound, lack of thoughts and stupid things to make him 'trashmouth around'.

It's not that he doesn't want to, it's just that there's literally nothing to say; no silly word, no dick joke, no anything comes to his mind, and, honestly, Richie's blaming it all on the weather, the air hot and dry around him, the laziness making his eyelids weight down, all the sleep nights traded for videogames finally asking for their price and making him slow, too tired to do anything else. He's basically giving up, lowering his gaze to the sketch and trying to understand what the freaking fuck are all those lines and curves, trying to give it a sense to decide if he'll keep it or throw it out.

There's a lot of red in there. Like, an awful lot. Bright tomato red, slightly pink red, red like flowers blooming on spring and like Bill's face when he stutters too much, and too much ― too much black red prints, sliding down the white sheet like blood, sliding down his table, drenching his fingers in its warmth and ― Richie's sleepiness is gone in the blink of an eye, ringing bells inside his head, alert making him _way_ more awake than a few seconds ago. The pen slids down his fingers, but Richie can barely hear its sound when it finds the ground, tension suddenly wrapping its cold hands all around him and _squeezing._

"Is there something wrong, Mr. Tozier?"

Mrs. Patts' voice is what snaps him partially out of it, and Richie looks up to find everyone staring at him with weird faces, Mrs. Patts seeming quite angry at whatever he apparently did to disturb her class. But Richie doesn't remember doing anything ― not unless dropping a pen counts ―, and he doesn't want everyone to keep looking at him so strangely. So he does what he'd usually do, and opens his mouth to drop a joke that'll certainly land him on a detention of at least four days helping the old lady of the library with her chores.

But his voice doesn't come. _Richie's voice doesn't come._ He opens his mouth and all it comes out is a bunch of air, and closes it almost immediately, desperation rising stupidly fast to his chest. **Talk. Talk, Richie, _goddamit, TALK._** But his voice doesn't come out, no matter how many times he tries to, no matter how hard and deep he breathes, and Richie starts to hiperventilate.

"Mr. Tozier?"

"Richie?"

Beverly's voice is much quieter, much less angry, much less full of accusation. She sounds honestly _worried,_ almost _scared,_ and Richie's brain shortcuts.

"Beep beep, Bev."

And that's when he _runs._

 

("He looked freaked out." is what Richie's going to hear, later, in the corridors, in the bathrooms, when people start talking about loser Richie 'Trashmouth' Tozier and his outburst in the middle of English class. "White like a ghost, shaking and all."

"He was freaked out." it's what Greta answers to everyone close enough to hear, so full of herself, like she usually is. "My father's seen it before, he told me it's a panic attack."

"I thought only weirdos had it."

"Of course only weirdos have it." she says, cruelty dripping from her voice like venom. "Tozier is the weirdest shit I've ever seen."

Richie will hide further inside the janitor's closet, between all the cleaning shit and awkward-smelling products, and press his head against his knees, hugging them close to his chest. He'll tell himself to stop being a coward, and his hands won't stop shaking no matter what he does, no matter how desperately he tries to make them stop. Tears will slid down his cheeks, cold and unforgiving, and Richie will tell himself that, if he ignores them enough, if he pretends they're not there, they'll eventually stop, they'll eventually dry on his skin, they'll fade like bad dreams and leave him just feeling like a fool ― because, with every possibility, that's actually the _least worse of them._

Panic attack. He _did not have a panic attack._ Richie Tozier doesn't have panic attacks.

Richie will repeat it slowly, quietly, until it almost sounds like truth, even if his heart beating like a hammer inside his chest and his lungs burning like hell and the fresh tears on his eyes tell him the contrary.)

 

Beverly will take Richie's things and carry with her throughout the whole day, careful as to not let anyone try and mess with his belongings, knowing how cruel they can be, knowing almost too well for her liking. She'll search for his pens and eraser and put in his backpack, and only glance at his notebook briefly before closing it and holding it against her chest, a bad feeling installing itself inside her heart at the sight of a single red balloon sketched onto the white sheet.

She'll not comment it with any of the only Losers at the time, thinking it's not her place to decide, but, later, she'll almost wish she did.

  

Later in the barrens, the Losers meet again. Richie's already there, throwing small rocks at the river, and Beverly puts the backpack and the notebook at his side without saying a word. Bill watches them from a certain distance, a curve of worry forming into his lips, but he doesn't try to initiate any talk. Eddie's unhappy, and that's clearly written on his face, but he knows Richie for long enough to avoid pressing him into talking about whatever it is that it's bothering him; Stan's face is unreadable, but his eyes tell enough of what he thinks about it all; Ben seems a bit nervous, but overral just worried.

Richie tries to keep his gaze away for them for just long enough not to be strange, but the silence hangs heavily into his shoulders, it brings a bittersweet taste into his mouth, and it's hard to force a smile when he turns around to greet them.

"Wassup, Losers." he rearranges the glasses in the bridge of his nose, pushing them up. "Wassup, Molly Ringwald."

Beverly rolls her eyes and hits his shoulders, and does something that sounds suspiciously like a complaint about not being included as a 'Loser' in his phrase, and it's like nothing's changed, so, for now, Bill decides it's good to drop the subject and keep on following as if there's nothing visibly wrong. He smiles, and approaches them to ask what Richie's doing. Ben soon follows, eager to make things alright again, and both Stan and Eddie share a look before the taller shrugs and approaches the other four, Eddie being the last one to drop it.

Mike comes a few minuter, and, with his arrival, the tension finally vanishes.

 

(For a few hours, Richie can almost pretend it's not hurting anymore.)

 

Coming home doesn't feel nearly as satisfying as it should. Richie ignores the TV on and goes straight to his room, kicking off his shoes and socks in the corridor and not minding about the mess on his way. The house's silent, so he guesses his father's sleeping or not at home, and his mother's probably passed out in their room, so he doesn't bother trying to not make any noise, humming loudly to himself and throwing his backpack in the first side of his room that he finds. It's getting late, so he decides it's fine to eat something and then take a shower, making his way to the kitchen in quick steps, a bit eager now that he thinks about how hungry he feels.

Sadly for him, there's nothing too far from cereal in the cabinets, and a few granola bars. There's not even _milk,_ and there are a lot of unmade dishes and empty bottles all around the place. Richie stares at it emotionless, and the hunger is only a dull aching pain in his stomach when he starts washing the dishes. It takes more time than it should, because he does it lazily, not having a care in the world ― and then he takes the empty bottles and puts them out, sighing when he thinks about all the others scattered around the house. He can take care of them later, he decides, and takes a bowl to eat cereal, dry because milk's ended and no one bothered to buy more.

Thought it's a routine he's somehow used to, Richie can't help but cringe at the strange flavour in his mouth, a bit upset. He can't help but think that, if mother weren't so drunk at least half of the time, she'd do more, she'd help more, she'd listen more and care about him. Richie's a _child,_ for fucks sake. He's _barely thirteen yet and..._

 **And children shouldn't have such a hard weight on their shoulders.** Children shouldn't fight **evil** and come so close to death as he did ― as **all** the Losers did. **Adults should've done something.** They should've ― Richie looses his appetite halfway through the third spoonful, and decides to let the bowl at the table, because it's not like his parents would mind anyway. He goes to the bathroom soon after, taking off his clothes and leaving them somewhere between his TV and the videogame, thinking at the back of his mind that he can clean it off later.

Richie likes to use the bathtub in stressing days, and today he decides he deserves it. Humming _Unstoppable,_ he allows himself to submerge under lukewarm water, feeling all his muscles relaxing almost at the same time, making him feel like jelly, boneless and without a problem in the world. Of course he can't stay underwater for too long, but it's time more than enough to make him feel better about the shitty day he had. So he takes his time in the bath, rubbing himself with the sponge until his skin is all red and aching a bit, sore.

He hears his parents fighting somewhere in the house, apparently about the lack of money and his mother's antics and how his father wants to have the place _clean,_ but Richie doesn't want to think about it, so he tunes them off and keeps singing quietly to himself, occupying his head with something at least _a bit useful_ before finishing the bath and finding himself some comfy oversized clothes to wear ― it's more than enough time for his parents to stop fighting and, apparently, go to sleep, if the quieteness that reigns in the house says something about it.

So Richie washes his teeth carefully, staring at the mirror through the thick glasses, not really seeing himself, but counting time inside his head. One, two, three, four... He does the whole washing thing very slowly, not because he actually _cares,_ but because it keeps him grounded, it keeps his mind full, and there's nothing he'd want more than that right now. He finishes it, rinses his mouth and goes to his room in small steps, trying not to make any noise not to disturb his parents, exhaustion slowly making its way through his muscles and brain.

He stops at his room's door, without switching the lights on, and stares inside. In the mild dark and the moonlight, he can only discern all The Cure's posters for living here for so long, the CDs and papers and notebooks and clothes all scattered around the place, and it makes a warm feeling spread through his chest. It's the knowledge that he's at home, that he's safe, that there's nothing here to hurt him or scare him that makes him take off the glasses and walk blindly through the room, letting them on the bedside table before throwing himself under the blankets, allowing himself a moment of tranquility.

Only a few minutes pass, and it's enough to make him sleepy, breath slowly quietening, eyes closing.

**Beep beep, Richie.**

He jolts awake, breath caught in his throat, so certain he's heard _that fucking voice_ once again that it's hard to focus. His heart's hammering against his chest, so fast and so loud Richie's surprised he hasn't made enough noise to waken up his parents ― there's a bitter taste inside his mouth, in the tip of his tongue, like iron and salt and _blood,_ and it makes Richie think of Henry Bowers and his stupid fists and his stupid hands and his stupid punches, and how much it _hurt_ when he decided he'd wanted Richie as a punching bag for the day.

Tears gather in the corner of his eyes, and Richie shuts them immediately, refusing to start crying for the _second_ time in just one day, but the despair's still there, the panic, the _fear_ crawling under his skin and through his veins, making him start shaking. Richie covers his mouth, trying desperately not to sob, fighting back the urge to go running knock at his parents' door, because he knows it won't matter, not to them, it wouldn't before, it doesn't now, it won't later. He feels nauseated. He feels panicked. He feels ― he is _afraid._

**Beep beep, Richie.**

"Stop it." he mutters to himself, covering his ears, slowly cowering onto himself, curling against his chest. "Stop it, fuck. We've killed you. We _killed you._ Stop."

And it does.

For a while.

 

(Richie doesn't sleep that night.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JUST SO YOU KNOW: panic attacks are not something to be joked about. it's not funny, it's not weird, people deserve respect. having panic attacks DOES NOT mean people have the right to be cruel to you about it.
> 
> curiosity: the doc's named "richie angst" in my computer, so, well, y'all know where this is heading to  
> see you next week! \o


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We're g-going to m-my h-h-house." he says, rather silently, as if giving Beverly ― and all the other Losers ― a choice.
> 
> They can stay, and go to class, and pretend this never happened; Bill can take care of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wOAH WHAT WAS THAT, HOW DID THIS HAPPEN, I wasn't expecting you all to like this idea so much  
> and I'm very happy about that <3 thank you for all your encouraging words and your kindness <3
> 
> I hope you like this chapter! :D  
> (if not, feel free to scream at me I'm @trashmouthing on tumblr)
> 
> ps: i'm not saying none of the other losers struggles with the events caused by IT, I just wanted to focus more on Richie because I love my garbage son a lot <3 ~~thus I want him to sUFFER~~

Richie's hands are shaking when he pays Mr. Blum for the chewing gums and the soda can, and he doesn't know why. He frowns deeply when his trembling fingers don't allow him to open the gums immediately and stick them into his mouth, but the peppermint flavor pays for the small amount of time wasted in the process. He feels a bit lightheaded, cold, like when you hit your head too hard on something and is left disorientated after, but tries his best to ignore it in favor of taking his bike and keep on chewing, walking slowly in the general direction of the school.

Things have been strangely calm since Henry left, and Richie still doesn't know if it's something _good_ or just... He can't shake off the feeling that something bad's about to happen, that there's something just lurking around the corner, waiting for him to tear down his walls before attacking, before scratching at his door and never leaving, before following him everywhere. Richie shakes his head, feeling nauseous, and takes a sip of his soda, cringing at himself for how lame he sounds, even if he hasn't actually said anything.

Trashmouth, being all full of philosophical shit about being paranoid and having no excuse for it ― what a disgraceful fate. Richie's convincing himself it's all karma ― probably all the jokes about Eddie's mother finally got to him ―, actually doing a crappy job at it, when something on the other side of the road calls his attention.

 **Red and big and shiny.** Richie stops and pushes the glasses up his nose ― thinking to himself that he already needs new ones ― before turning around to see what it is.

The soda can slips through his fingers and falls to the ground with a cracking sound, spilling all over his legs and shoes, but Richie can barely notice it. His heart rams mercilessly against his ribcage, and the boy finds it hard to breath, a suffocating feeling that spreads through his chest and whole body like wild fire.

Richie doesn't know why he feels that way. The shaking's getting worse, to the point where even his _shoulders_ are moving, his knees weak, the tip of his fingers starting to get numb. Tears are coming to his eyes at an alarming rate, and Richie finds it in himself that he can't stop them, that he can do nothing to avoid having them sliding down his cheeks, small and cold droplets of salty water that make him feel even _worse._

He takes a step back. And then another. And another. Richie trips on the sidewalk, falling flat on his butt, concrete scratching the palm of his hands in a burning pain that does little to nothing to snap him out of his panic-striken state.

Richie can't run. He can't hide.

_Richie can't breath._

 

Bill is the first one of the Losers to notice Richie hasn't come to school this morning ― not because he was _searching_ for him, but because they happen to be a duo in the first two classes before break time, and it's abnormally _hard_ to pass all this time not sleeping without the boy with a motormouth at his side to make Math seem a little less terrible.

At first, Bill's a bit bothered by it. Richie usually takes time to give him a heads up when he's about to skip class, whatever is the reason why he can't go, from not wanting to get out of bed to being sick and unable to move properly. So, it's not like it'd hurt for hum to tell Bill this time, right?

But then the first time goes by, and Bill's anger slowly fades to a dull aching worry at the back of his mind. Richie _doesn't do that._ The rare times he did, so few that Bill can count them in just one hand, he had more than enough reason to do so. Why this time would be different?

Richie did it the first time Henry Bowers beat him up, because couldn't walk straight and, with his glasses broken, he couldn't see jack shit. He also did it when his grandmother died, because his parents took him to the funeral ― that was in another city ―, an when he got blood infections. Bill can't think of any other time, and that makes guilt bloom inside his chest like poison ivy. What if Richie couldn't contact him? Bill vaguely remembers ignoring a phone call this morning because he was running late for school.

And then there's something _worse:_ what if Richie's _hurt?_

By the time he's freed from Math, Bill's worried himself sick, feeling nauseated and anxious, eyes darting through the corridor in search of his trashmouth friend while he takes fast, shaky steps to the place where the Losers agreed to meet. But Richie's nowhere. _Nowhere._ Fear claws its way through his veins faster than it ever did before, making him short of breath and dizzy, a weird feeling numbing his lungs.

When Bill finds the Losers scattered in the grass under the sun ― except for Eddie, because Eddie's still worried about germs, and brought with him a small piece of cloth to sit on ―, he can't bother to hide his uneasiness, nor his worry, and even less the despair making its way into his voice.

"H-Have an-any of y-you s-seen R-Ri-Richie?"

Stan's face goes from a small half-smile to a frown almost as soon as he's finished the question. Eddie's lips lose their color. Both Ben and Beverly turn to look at Bill with similar expressions of confusion.

"We thought he was with you?" Beverly's statement sounds like a question, and Bill feels a lump forming in his throat.

"He - He di-d-didn't c-come." he swallows dry. "I do-don't know where - w-where he is."

It's harder to say the words out loud than it was to admit it quietly to himself, but they both hurt the same. Bill sees the exact moment when realization dawns upon his friends, when their faces turn into similar expressions of worry and fear, and he hates it that it had to be _him_ the one to drop the bomb.

He knows what they're thinking about. He knows what's going in their minds, because he himself can't focus on anything else since he noticed he hasn't heard of Richie ever since last evening in the barrens, when the boy decided to leave early saying he had homework to do.

Richie hasn't contacted any of them since then, and that's not something he usually does, unless there's anything spetacularly wrong going on.

Bill thinks about everything that could've happened to Richie for him not to show up. He thinks small, stupid things at first ― Richie lost his track of time, Richie forgot to set an alarm, Richie sleeped in ―, but they get worse and worse with every passing minute. Bill's thoughts get clouded with crescent anxiety and fear, his body shaking so much it's hard to _stand._

He thinks about Richie, deadly, swinging a bat like he'd done it his entire life.

And then he thinks about clowns.

And red balloons. Floating.

 

Stan goes through the next classes with a weird, heavy feeling in his guts. He has a Spanish test, and, while he does it with all the care he can, Stan still feels it's not enough. Part of him believes they're overreacting, shaping things out of proportion because they're all worried about their friend, but Stan can't trust it, he can't really believe how things are simply getting out of control, how they're losing their grasps on reality and freaking out over small things.

He sighs when the second break time comes, not knowing how to put his thoughts into order, not knowing how to get into that safe place where he can think _rationally._ Stan's not usually one to take things out of proportion ― okay, maybe he'd done it once or twice ―, but he has to admit it's not hard to freak out when...

"Where _the hell_ were you?"

Beverly's angry voice snaps Stan out of his thoughts, startling him and making him look up in surprise, eyes wide in confusion. And then ― right then, right there ―, surrounded by the Losers, is the one and only Richie 'Trashmouth' Tozier.

And he doesn't look good.

 

Richie's eyes are a bit swollen, the tip of his nose red, and his cheeks are so pink one would think he's burning in fever ― or he's terribly sick, or he's been crying and didn't have time to try and hide it. It makes Bill's heart drop to his stomach, guilt threatening to swallow him whole. And he gets why Beverly sounds angry when she's only worried, he really does, but he doesn't think that's how they should be treating him, not now, not when they're so worried and full of frenzied nerves waiting to wreak havoc.

But Richie doesn't seem to mind, not at all, and gives her a bright smirk that doesn't get to his eyes.

"At Eds' h―" his voice fails, and the awful sexual joke all of them were kind of already expecting to hear never comes.

There's a moment of silence ― just a small moment, tension heavy on their shoulders ―, and Richie looks like a deer caught in headlights, mouth hanging open, almost frightened by not being able to crack a joke and make it seem everything's alright. Bill wants to help him, wants to make him comfortable again even if it means _he_ will be the one fidgeting under their friends' gaze, but his voice doesn't come, no matter how hard he tries to use it, to say something, to say _anything._

Eddie ends up being the one to break the silence, voice small, sounding almost _hurt._

"Don't use my mom to change the subject." the boy presses his lips to a tight line for a brief moment. "We were worried about you."

Bill knows they're the wrong words to be said as soon as they're finished, but there's nothing he can do about it.

 

Richie's world is crashing down on him ― Ben knows it, he's seen this look before, this posture, how he takes a sharp breath when Eddie finishes the sentence. What he doesn't know, however, is the feeling that comes after ― the one that drains all the color from Richie's face, making him look like a ghost, eyes wide and so full of terror it's hard to even _gaze_ at them.

"Shit."

And, against all odds, it's Eddie himself the one to understand what's going on with Richie before anyone else has the chance to, cursing loudly and approaching, not giving them space to do so. Richie doesn't try to keep him away, allowing Eddie to put his hands on his shoulders, to ground him while the other Losers gather closer, even more worried now than before, because Richie's here, but they still don't understand what the hell is going on.

"Rich, look at me." Eddie's voice is calmer now, less upset, but still firm. Ben knows what he's doing now, and glances quickly at their surroundings to see if there's anyone paying attention. "Guys, give him space. He's having a panic attack."

Ben's heard those words before, last morning, when Richie ran away from one of their classes. He immediately takes a step back, not knowing how to proceed and deciding to let Eddie keep the lead, because the boy looks like he knows _exactly_ what he's doing.

Richie's still desperate, though, and, when all of them hear and _obey_ Eddie, he tries to say something ― his voice comes, but his senses don't, and he's stuttering so badly Ben doesn't understand a word he's saying. But Eddie does, and he doesn't seem happy with whatever it is that he's listening to ― he puts a hand over Richie's mouth to shut him up, cringing slightly before setting his face on a frown.

"You're babbling, Trashmouth." and his voice gets softer when he guides Richie to sit on the grass, still holding one of his shoulders, but giving the other up and freeing the boy's mouth in favor of taking one of Richie's hands and pressing it over the boy's own chest. "You've got to breath, okay? Breathe with me."

And then he proceeds to make Richie take in a deep, long breath ― to hold it for a few seconds before blowing the air out, as slowly as he breathed it in. Eddie asks him to do it again, and, although with some difficulties, Richie does his best, struggling to keep a rhythm, fingers curling against his chest, gripping it tightly.

Ben watches them, watches Eddie offering quiet words of comfort, Richie clinging onto him like a lifeline, and wishes he could do more.

 

Beverly's vision is a bit blurred with all the tears she doesn't allow herself to shed. She wants to fight, she wants to cry and scream, but she has no reason other than being upset, and she doesn't want to draw any attention to them ― she doesn't want to expose Richie more than she feels she already did, and it hurt hers not knowing what to do.

She covers her mouth to avoid saying anything when she sees Richie struggling to regain his breath, with Eddie at his side all the while, offering him a shoulder to lean on. And it takes time ― probably more time than they have, than they should ― for Richie to finally _calm down,_ his shoulders dropping a bit, his head hanging low. When he stops responding, although clearly not panicked, Eddie looks up to give the Losers a worried stare.

Bill, the ever so caring leader of the Losers, immediately acts, approaching the duo to kneel in front of Richie, waiting to receive a nod from Eddie before acting. Beverly watches when he kindly wraps his arms around Richie, mumbling quietly, so quietly that only the boy will hear him, running his fingers through Richie's hair with such a gentleness that Beverly almost feels like an intruder by seeing it.

And that, _that's_ the moment no one of them was expecting: for whatever it is that Bill's talking about, Richie nods, and _slumps_ against him, his body going limp against his friend's chest while he hides his face at the crook of the boy's neck. Beverly stops breathing. Bill freezes on spot for barely a second before accepting it whole-heartedly, resting his chin against Richie's hair and hugging him tightly. He closes his eyes, sighing.

Beverly takes it as a cue to approach, a hand still over her mouth, and kneels next to Bill. He, sensing her more than properly hearing her, turns a bit to give the redhead a look through half-closed eyelids.

"We're g-going to m-my h-h-house." he says, rather silently, as if giving Beverly ― and all the other Losers ― a choice.

They can stay, and go to class, and pretend this never happened; Bill can take care of it. Beverly looks at the others, and the Losers share a glance. Stan never skips school; Ben doesn't, either. Eddie's mother would have a heart attack if she heard of him ever considering the possibility of missing class on purpose, and Beverly's aunt would be disappointed if she knew.

She turns to face Bill again.

"We're coming with you."

 

Eddie ends up trailing behind Bill, staring awkwardly and trying not to think about what his mother's going to do when she discovers he didn't go to school. He occupies his mind with watching Richie, who's latched onto Bill's back like a baby koala, not seeming bothered by it. If Richie's cheeks weren't so red, it'd be easy to think he's not embarassed about accepting a piggyback ride to Bill's home.

And it makes Eddie feel better, kind of. After the chaos that was this morning, it's good to see Richie apparently comfortable enough around them to allow himself this moment of vulnerability, of fragility ― Eddie can feel his worry melting, the heavy weight being lifted from his shoulders just the tiniest bit.

He has enough knowledge of illness and medical symptoms to know a panic attack doesn't simply _happen_ ― there has to be a trigger, there has to be a condition, even if unknown, for it to start. Eddie can't think of what he's done wrong to be the one to actually _cause_ it ― he remembers clearly how Richie's posture changed, how his eyes went wide and his shoulders started to shake.

Was it stress? That's why Richie's been so on the edge? It doesn't make sense. Up until last morning, Richie was _fine._ There'd have to be someone, something, _anything_ that changed and didn't went well with him. Eddie bites his lip, thoughtful ― he's not sure if knowing the _whys_ matters, not if they can't even deal with what's happening right now, but it's still good to let it at the back of his mind, something to dwell on later.

"E-Everything al-alright u-up there, b-bu-buddy?"

Bill's voice makes Eddie look at them again, and it's the kind of scene he doesn't know if he wants to stare at or if he wants to keep his eyes away from ― either way, he watches. Richie keeps his eyes screwed shut, but nuzzles against Bill's back apparently without a care in the world, sleepily mumbling an answer that, because of the distance between them, Eddie can't hear. But Bill does, and the worry in his face melts into a warm smile, not forcefully bright, just warm, just familiar. He doesn't ask anything else, and Richie slowly gives in to slumber, shoulders dropping, face relaxing, lips slightly parted.

Eddie watches him. Sees how his hair's grown since the summer, how there are freckles dotted all over Richie's cheekbones and nose, how the sun kisses his skin and paints him the color of the autumn, yellow and orange and brown all over him. He ends up turning away, blushing for no reason, and there's a thought kind of funny running in his head.

Though he has the vocabulary of a sailor, in that moment, so peaceful and deep in slumber, Richie Tozier looks _beautiful._

 

(They end up not talking about it, not because none of them wants to, but because, when Richie wakes up, he's so far away from being conscious he cuddles Beverly and complains that _moooom, I want to sleep, why are the lights on?_

And Beverly's so completely caught off guard by the sudden treatment that she just. Kind of _stares._ It takes Richie almost a whole minute to notice she's not reacting, and he pulls away to squint his eyes at her, his hair a mess, face lost.

"You're not mom." he says, surprised at the statement, and blinks. "Hi, Bev."

And, really. The Losers tried not to, but they break in laughter at that ― Richie's face is so honestly _confused,_ shit, it's hilarious. It takes him three minutes of them laughing non-stop to notice what he did.

"Oh, fuck." Richie groans, and throws himself at Bill's bed again. "You're never gonna let me live this down, are you?"

"Nope." Stan grins at him.

"Not in a lifetime." Eddie agrees.   

And Richie complains and curses at them, only causing more laughter, but he's also smiling.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk how long I'll make this, but I'm already finishing chapter 5 and tHINGS ARE GETTING WORSE.  
> they're bound to get better. maybe. who knows. dEFINITELY NOT ME.
> 
> buckle up, kids, shit's going to get wILD


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All his things are gone. Not gone as in gone, but shattered ― broken in tiny pieces, torn open, scattered all around the room that Richie can barely recognize as his own. He can see the globe Bill gave him last year in pieces at the end of his bed, a pool of water around it, pointy glass scattered closer. It’s destroyed ― and so is the origami guy Eddie gave him as a joke, but Richie liked too much to throw out.
> 
> His CDs are gone. His LPs. His posters. The things his friends gave him, their photos, all the dumb shit ― it’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO ♡
> 
> thank y'all for your support and kind words ♡
> 
> i have this story written to chapter 8 and completely outlined to the rest of it and bOY WE GOT SOME REAL ANGST COMING lol
> 
> have fun reading! \o
> 
>  **warnings:** Richie's parents show up a bit here; they're not nice at all. Implied underage smoking.

Things are okay for a while, and Richie erases the events of his mind, prefering to think it was an one-time thing, something that he doesn't want to think about. At first, he believes that the other Losers are going to try and talk about it, because they all start acting a bit strange around him, but then one or two week pass and things get back to normal. Richie makes jokes about Eddie's mother, gets his high-fives ignored by Stan, lands them in trouble by talking too much and too loud in class  ― it's honestly a mess, but it's good, and Richie's fine with it.

(He thinks he is.)

Mike invites them to go to his grandfather's farm one day, instead of the barrens, and, as they're all thirtheen-year-olds who have nothing better to do  ― except for Ben, because he has to go with his mother to an aunt's birthday that day, and ends up declining the offer, and Stanley, because he's promised something to his father and needs to stay home  ― , they happily agree. Richie puts his favorite yellow cap, takes his bike and rides to meet the others.

Beverly’s a bright blue spot with fiery hair, Bill’s wearing white (and Richie makes a mental note to make sure he regrets it), and Eddie’s with his signature red shorts, looking gloomly at them, eyebrows furrowed and pressed tightly together.

“Do you have any idea how many germs there are out there in the wild?” he complains, voice high-pitched with concern. “A gazillion! If we get hurt, we’re screwed!”

Richie finds himself smiling, Beverly shaking her head while Bill watches them with curiosity. Eddie gives them a frantic stare.

“There’s not an immediate treatment to tetanus, guys! We could all die there!”

At that, Richie can’t control his laugh.

“You know what else doesn’t have an immediate treatment?” the look Eddie gives him says he doesn’t even want to know, but Richie tells him anyway: “The heartache your mother causes me when  ― ”

“Beep beep, Richie.”

He rolls his eyes at Beverly, but she gives him a pointed look, and Richie gets the idea pretty fast. Ok, no more mom jokes for today  ― if Eddie’s mad at the subject, it means things are going bad at home, and none of the Losers particularly likes it when he jokes about ‘sensitive’ subjects. Well, Richie can deal with that.

“Fine, fine.” he throws his hands up in surrender before giving Eddie an apologetic glance. “Sorry, Eds.”

The other Loser looks at him, face fierce, ready to snap  ― but then he sees the truth in Richie’s eyes, and his expression softens.

“It’s  _ Eddie!” _

 

In the end, Richie doesn’t need to do anything to make Bill regret wearing white to go to Mike’s farm  ― the boy does it himself, not paying attention to where he goes and tripping all over himself, falling just when they’re entering one of the small barns Mike said he can show them, cursing loudly with surprise. Richie, of course, laughs a lot at his misfortune, but it’s when Bill’s standing again and patting himself to try and clean the dirt off his skin  ― hay flying everywhere  ― that an idea crosses his mind.

“Hey, Mike, do you have haystack here?” he asks, as one who doesn’t want anything.

“Sure.” Mike, innocent, trusting Mike, answers before even thinking about it. “Right over there, why?”

Richie smiles devilishly. Eddie’s the first one to catch upon that.

“Oh, no!” he shakes his head vigorously. “No, no, no! Don’t even  _ think _ about it, Trashmouth!”

Richie’s smile grows when he takes a step back, and Mike looks from one to another with confusion written all over his face. Beverly frowns, and Bill seems as lost as the owner of the barn.

“What?”

And Richie’s going to answer them  ― he really is, because he’s a little shit like that  ― , but a noise coming from behind him makes him stop dead in tracks and turn around.

And there, right there, a few steps away, separated from them by just fences, are a bunch of baby sheep  ― small, fluffy and weirdly  _ nice _ to look at.

“Wow.” is what he ends up breathing out, while Beverly squeals a bit in delight.

The baby sheep are all together, towering above Richie's knees but still small, and he stares at them curiously for a moment. They look dirty and do all types of weird noises, but they're also. Kind of cute. Really,  _ really _ cute. He crouches down next to the fence to get a closer look, careful not to lose his balance and fall on his knees. One brave baby sheep approaches, as if watching him back, and Richie has to resist the urge to reach out to it and tap its head kindly.

"Dude, you're staring at it like you've never seen a sheep." Mike blinks. "Haven't you?"

"Of course I did." Richie lies. "I just didn't remember they were so ugly."

"Don't be like that." Beverly complains, and also approaches, watching the animals with fond eyes. Different from Richie, se doesn't mind sitting in the hay on the floor, doing it at his side and smiling. "They're pretty."

"And full of diseases." Eddie cringes a bit, the only one of the group to keep himself as far away from the fences as possible, before giving Mike a look. "No offense."

But Mike's as used to Eddie's antics as he is to Richie's awful jokes, and he just shrugs.

"None taken."

"W-What do y-you do w-with t-them?" Bill, always the bravest of them, is the only one to come and reach out to the sheep, gently touching it, apparently don't caring about the fact that his hand ends up a bit dirty.

It's the only moment Mike looks a bit uncomfortable, fidgeting under his friends' gaze. Richie supposes it's not an answer he'll like to hear, and immediately tries to find a way out of it.

"You know, why don't we  ― "

"We, uh, we kill them." Mike rubs the back of his neck, cringing. "My grandfather sells the meat to the butcher shop."

Beverly makes a surprised, almost horrified sound at the back of her throat. Bill's eyes widen. Even Eddie looks completely caught off guard. Mike gives them an apologetic glance.

"I know, I know, I don't like it too, but, well. That's what he does since long before I came."

Richie feels nauseated  ― even though he doesn't know exactly why  ― , so he sits. He vaguely remembers wondering where did Mike find the pistol Bill used later, and now, well, at least he has an answer  ― even if it makes his stomach churn. a bitter taste in his mouth. Richie grabs a bunch of hay from the floor, fingers digging onto it to try and control the sudden flood of feelings inside his chest.

“But they’re so cute.” Beverly’s voice is a bit upset, and she reaches out to caress the sheep still close to them.

“I feel kinda bad for eating meat now.” Eddie whispers, even though he still eyes the sheep suspiciously.

“That’s why I don’t.” Mike shakes his head.

Richie wants to drop a joke and stop the tension that crawls inside the barn after that, he really does, but his tongue feels heavy, and was it this suffocating warmness in his throat already there? He can’t take his eyes off the small sheep Beverly’s talking with  ― using the ‘baby voice’, as if it were a kid  ― , and, as fast and strong as a thunder, a flash of images cuts through his thoughts.

A pistol. A tiny boy with a missing arm. Bill’s eyes full of tears, shoulders hunched up. Blood. And  ― were there corpses? Floating. Richie’s breath comes out ragged, a shiver running down his spine.

“G-Guys, we s-should g-go.” Bill declares. “It’s g-getting l-late.”

“This side of the road is dangerous during the night.” Mike agrees, but then, on a second thought, adds: “I can talk to my grandfather for you to sleep here, if you’d want. I can lend some clothes, and we have enough rooms for everybody.”

Richie considers the offer, glad to have something else to think about. He doesn’t think his parents would mind if he disappeared for the night  ― they already don’t care about what he does or where he goes at all, as long as he doesn’t give them trouble  ― , and it’d be definitely fun to see how things work at Mike’s house. But, as the universe definitely hates him, of course there’s someone to pop Richie’s bubble.

“Mom would kill me if I stayed.” Eddie shakes his head mournfully. “She already didn’t want to let me come, because she said I could hurt myself and get tetanus.”

Richie can’t help but scoff at that. Eddie’s judgemental look makes him swallow down the ironic comment that was about to come out.

“Aunt M wouldn’t let me stay the night in a house full of boys.” Beverly twists her lips sadly. “At least, I think she wouldn’t. She was complaining to me this morning that I spend too much time with you guys and almost none with her.”

Well, fuck. Sometimes Richie forgets most adults can’t see a girl befriending a bunch of guys, because their heads are full of shit and they believe there  _ has _ to be a reason why the guys accept her without complaining, and it  _ can’t _ be because they simply like her company.

“I think we can leave that to another day.” Richie suggests before Bill can also list the reasons why he can’t stay. “We can talk about it with Stan and Ben, give Bev time to convince her aunt, everyone wins.”

“It’s a good idea.” Mike smiles before anyone can tell Richie off for basically inviting himself over without waiting to see if the offer was still up. “I can talk to my grandfather and see what he thinks of it.”

“Of course it’s a good idea.” Richie pushes the glasses up his nose while standing, not bothering to try and clean the dirt off his knees. “I’m a fucking genius, forgot it?”

“I literally don’t have enough fingers to count how many stupid ideas you had  _ just last week.” _

“Fuck off, Eddie!”

Beverly, Bill and Mike all laugh at them, and Richie fights off a smile of his own.

When they leave the barn, he doesn’t look back.

 

(Richie _does,_ in fact, get his hay war. Eddie almost kills him  ― because _what the hell Richie, do you know how many germs could’ve been there?!_ ―, there’s hay even in his _mouth,_ but it’s totally worth it in the end.)

 

Sadly, leaving his friends and coming home early ends up doing him no good, because his mother’s in one of her drunk crisis and his father’s had enough of it  ― they’re full-on screaming their lungs out at each other, and Richie regrets entering the house as soon as he steps in, because both of them immediately turn on him with similar faces of rage.

“Where the hell were you, Richard?!”

The furious question makes Richie cower away, taking a step back and staring at his mother with wide eyes, completely caught off guard by her anger. Sadly for him, that doesn’t help at all, as it only makes her even angrier, face red and nostrils flaring.

“Answer me!”

“What do you think he was doing?!” his father roars, and Richie’s heart flips horribly. “With a mother like you, it’d be a surprise if he weren’t getting shit-faced somewhere!”

Richie breathes sharply. They don’t talk about that. They  _ never _ talk about that. Not in front of Richie, not in front of anyone. It makes him want to run and hide  ― it doesn’t matter that it’s already dark outside, anything is better than having to hear them fighting and blaming it all on him when he’d done nothing wrong.

“He wasn’t drinking!” for a small, crazy moment, Richie has the delusional idea that his mother’s defending him  ― that is, at least until she turns to face him, and she’s still as furious as she was before. “He was with those  ― those stupid children again! The whore and the other bastards!”

And Richie feels as if he’s been kicked in the guts, all oxygen knocked out of his lungs. Anger flares up like fire, gnawing at his insides and making him step forward instead of stepping back.

“Bev’s not a whore!” and it may be the first time in his entire life that Richie raises his voice to his parents. “The Losers are my  _ fucking friends!” _

“Watch your mouth while talking to your mother!”

When his father steps closer, snatching Richie’s arm and shaking him like a rag doll, the boy feels helpless  ― because that’s what he is: a child,  _ stupid child, _ with a motormouth he can’t control and parents who don’t give a fuck. Tears gather at the corner of his eyes, a lump forming in his throat, and Richie fights them off with all he has. He’s not going to bend, he’s not going to break, he’s not gonna give them that; not now, not ever.

“You’re full of shit.” Maggie Tozier scowls at both of them, and Richie doesn’t know if she’s talking to someone in special or just letting it open for interpretation. “Tell me, Richard, did your  _ friends _ give you that?”

Her voice’s full of sarcasm, and she throws a small pack on the floor, right in front of him. Richie’s afraid to look at it at first, not knowing  ― or having any idea about  ― what he’s going to find. He ends up doing it anyway, and regrets it as son as his eyes find the pack.

Cigarettes.  _ His _ cigarettes  ― strong and bitter and Beverly’s favorites. Richie’s heart drops to his stomach.

“W-Where  ― where did you find that?"

Richie remembers hiding them deep inside his closet, behind all the CDs and action figures, going as far as putting it in his box of snacks, knowing full well that, even if his parents went to his room when he wasn’t there, they wouldn’t care enough to go through his things.

His father’s grip on his arm tightens. Richie’s hand’s starting to feel numb.

“So they  _ are _ yours.” Wentworth sounds almost as furious as his wife, if not more. “I knew there’d have to be a reason why my money kept disappearing!”

Despair rises up Richie’s throat like venom. They think he’s a  _ thief? _ He didn’t take anything from them! Beverly gave it to him because she knows he has no money to buy it himself.

“I d-didn’t  ― ” fuck, he’s stuttering. Is that how Bill feels when he tries to get his point across and no word comes out right? It’s awful.

“Shut up!”

When his father finally frees him, Richie loses his balance and falls, knees hitting the floor, pain aching through his system, shock making him unable to gather himself together.

“I’m tired of your voice. I can’t hear you right now.” Wentworth frowns at the boy on the floor, clearly not satisfied. “You’re grounded.”

“Go to your room.” Maggie adds, when she notices her son’s not moving. “Don’t come back!”

Richie’s shaking when he stands, slowly, his knees weak. He considers taking the pack of cigarettes with him  ― his parents wanting it or not, it’s  _ his, _ not theirs  ― , but decides against it, not wanting to get into even more trouble with them; as things are right now, though they’ve never done it before, Richie wouldn’t be really surprised if they hit him.

He eyes them one last time, takes in the fury, the accusation, the disappointment, and quickly runs to his room, heart aching deep inside his chest.

Richie doesn’t want to be here anymore.

 

(All his things are gone. Not gone as in  _ gone, _ but shattered  ― broken in tiny pieces, torn open, scattered all around the room that Richie can barely recognize as his own. He can see the globe Bill gave him last year in pieces at the end of his bed, a pool of water around it, pointy glass scattered closer. It’s destroyed  ― and so is the origami guy Eddie gave him as a joke, but Richie liked too much to throw out.

His CDs are gone. His LPs. His posters. The things his friends gave him, their photos, all the dumb shit  ― it’s gone.

Richie slids down to the floor, back against the door, until he’s sitting in the only spot in the room that’s not covered in shattered pieces of anything.

And that’s when he cries.)

 

Stan may not be the most talkative of the Losers’ Club, but he knows he’s one of the most observant ones. He knows because there’s a thing, more like a  _ feeling, _ that puts him into alert as soon as his brain notices something’s not right in whatever it is the situation  ― something that makes him stir to the deepest part of his soul, alarms going on and off as things start to get out of control.

Today is one of the days where the alarm is on. Stan wakes up, and the world feels a little bit colder, a little bit worse. He takes a moment just to stare at the ceiling, at the stars he put in there when he was six, and waits a bit to get used to the feeling gnawing at his chest, the urge to go and and  ― he doesn’t know exactly. Do something.

But he goes on with his routine as normal, knowing that panicking and trying to understand what’s going on will only land him nowhere. He keeps his mouth shut, he keeps his head busy, and, by the time he gets to school, the awful feeling’s almost gone, even though it’s definitely not forgotten.

The first person he finds at school is Beverly  ― she’s chewing a gum, smelling of cigarette and coffee, and Stan takes comfort in the fact that being around her makes all the tension vanish, his mind suddenly empty of bad thoughts.

“Hey, Bev.” he greets her, and, in return, Beverly offers him a smile brighter than the sun.

“Hey, Stan.”

Beverly may be the only one of the Losers that doesn’t mind him being mostly quiet, and doesn’t mind being quiet at his side. Stan really appreciates her for that, like, a lot  ― not that he  _ dislikes _ the others when he’s in a day like that, he doesn’t, it’s just that it’s very hard to keep himself under control when they’re around. Bill’s got that protective steak in him, the one that makes him go in full-on ‘big brother’ at them when he as much as thinks there’s something wrong. Eddie’s too worried, all the time, about everything; he makes Stan feels as if the world’s gonna end at any moment by an attack of homicidal germs or something like that. Ben’s so shy and ready to say he’s sorry even when the problem has nothing to do with him, Stan feels guilty for putting him under the pressure of thinking he has to do something to make things better. Mike’s usually a quiet guy, but he’s very touchy-feeling, and Stan’s not, what sometimes makes things strange between them. And Richie couldn’t shut up even if he tried  ― he’s the type of guy to freak out and start babbling non-stop, even more so when he’s worried about someone.

Honestly, Beverly’s the best of them all.

“So, how was yesterday?” he asks her, trying not to sound uninterested, because he  _ does _ want to know what they did.

If Stan hadn’t promised his father he’d help with cleaning the house, he’d have loved to follow them. If the way Beverly’s face softens and her eyes warm up is any clue, Stan immediately knows he’ll love to hear whatever it is that the other Losers did while he and Ben weren’t with them.

“It was awesome! You won’t believe what Richie did.”

Stan can’t help but smile.

“Tell me more about it.”

And, when Beverly starts talking, so bright and full of life, Stan thinks the bad feeling must be nothing more than that: a bad feeling.

He’s wrong.

 

Richie’s humor gets even worse when he’s having a bad day  ― not because he intends for it to be this way, but because it’s  _ so much easier _ to snap at everyone, to find sharp answers and crude words and jokes when he’s almost over the edge. He knows he should at least  _ try, _ that it’s  _ no one’s fault _ his life’s so miserable. And he knows he has absolutely no rational reason for it, but  ― Richie’s angry, too. At his parents for not giving a fuck, at his family for pretending nothing’s wrong, at the world and the fucking universe for letting it happen. He may not have the right to do so, but Richie keeps lashing out at people  ― even when he has no reason to do so.

And that’s exactly how he lands himself and Bill into trouble: being his loud, obnoxious self during class.

“Mr. Tozier, care to share with the class what’s so interesting about your hands that you can’t keep your eyes off them for more than two minutes?”

Richie smashes the paper in his hands almost immediately, looking up to the teacher with an easy, rather unironic smile.

“Actually, sir, I do.” he turns to Bill, who almost looks uncomfortable under his gaze. “Did you know that the universe was thrown up by a turtle, Bill?”

There are collective sighs of frustration, because, apparently, no one wants to deal with Richie’s antics, not today. Bill’s eyes  ― so blue, more blue than anything Richie’s ever seen in his entire life  ― don’t quite  _ plead _ for him to stop, but come very close to it. And Richie doesn’t want to disappoint Bill, not really, but, if he gives up on his jokes, what’s left of  _ him, _ of Richie Tozier?

Not much, if you’d ask him. Nothing, to be honest. Who would give a fuck about him if Richie didn’t force them to?  _ No one. _ No one would mind. No one would care  ― they already don’t, and, if the only way Richie can make them  _ look _ at him is making people  _ hate _ him, hell. So be it.

“How do you feel knowing you’re the result of a turtle’s bad stomach, sir?”

In retrospect, maybe Richie  _ should _ have left the ‘Bill’ thing out of it  ― at least the teacher wouldn’t have put  _ both of them _ in detention.

He looks up from his knees, and finds Bill staring at him with those sad eyes of his  ― it’s that one look again, the one that makes Richie want to crawl out of his skin and cower away; to leave behind the guilt that gnaws at him for being the one to cause Bill trouble instead of being the one to  _ help. _

“Stop staring at me like that.” Richie kind of grits through his teeth, fingers digging into his own knees. “I was just  ― ”

“B-Beep beep, Richie.”

**Shut up!**

**I'm tired of your voice.**

Richie closes his mouth, and doesn't say anything for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at my school a boy once got in trouble for entering the class by the window, nothing convinces me that telling a teacher we're all (them included) turtle's vomit won't get you in trouble, ok, @ fight me
> 
>  
> 
> ok, so, here things start to go from bad to terribly wrong and tHE ONLY WAY OUT IS DOOOOWN
> 
> come scream at me @ trashmouthing on tumblr


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Beep beep, Richie.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sURPRISE UPDATE AYOOOOO  
> *finger guns*
> 
> **warnings:** inappropriate use of meds ahead.

Something's changed in the Losers dynamics ― Beverly can't quite put her finger into what it is, but she knows it's _there._ Richie hasn't been nearly as loud as before, and his jokes fall flat every time, almost as if he's stopped trying to make them funny and is now keeping them just out of habit. And then there's Bill ― Bill, who's always been a quiet guy, but never had to use many words to get his point across, and recently's been avoiding the trashmouth of the group, not good enough of a liar to be able to pretend everything's alright.

Beverly can see he's ashamed, almost guilty ― it's painfully written on his face whenever he as much as glances towards Richie, and not knowing _why_ makes her uneasy, stressed out. Did they fight again, is that it? Did Richie say or make something that offended Bill? If so, then why is _Bill_ the one to feel guilty about it? Unless he'd said or done something that made Richie very upset, Beverly doesn't understand what's making them act so strange around each other.

And it's not like she needs to know _everything_ that's going on with them ― she doesn't. She's their friend, not their owner, and they don't owe her anything. Beverly likes to think of them ― and all other Losers ― as 'her boys', but that's because she _cares,_ that's because they, all of them, share the weight of having faced their worst fears to have each other's back, to protect each other.

They came for her, _fought_ for her when no one else did. Beverly wants to fight for them, too.

And she will ― when she finds out _what the hell_ is wrong.

 

Bill messed up.

Bill messed up badly, and has no idea how to fix it.

It's not like Richie's never done this before, it's not like he's never landed them in trouble by being too loud or joking too much ― telling a teacher they're all turtle vomit is by far the worst thing he's done; it may be one of the most creative ones, but it's not nearly as terrible as some other things. Bill doesn't know why he got so upset ― he just. Did.

Some days are just better than others. Sometimes Bill's up to pranks and jokes and laughter, but sometimes he's just _not._ Richie happened to slip in one of his bad days, and Bill feels entirely guilty for how they've been acting around each other lately.

He's not anyone's big brother ― not anymore ―, and he should _fucking get used to it._ He doesn't need to baby the Losers, Bill knows that much, but, sometimes, more often than not, he finds himself slipping into that role, doing things that are uncalled for. He got upset, had the urge to make a speech, had wanted to tell Richie to grow up ― Bill decided against it all, and simply told him to 'shut up', just when Richie was in the middle of something that could've been an explanation, an apology.

He may not be completely wrong, but he's not entirely right either. Bill _wants to fix that._ He wants to make things okay again, and he has to _try._

"W-Why don't y-you g-g-guys come t-to my h-house?"

It's a hopeful attempt, he has to admit. None of them likes to stay home for too long, each for their reasons, but Bill guesses his is still one most of them like to stay at when they have the chance. His parents don't mind his friends staying over, and they're pretty much free to do almost anything they want.

"W-We c-can play v-videogames and ― and w-watch m-movies a-all the e-evening." he adds, as an afterthought, knowing some of them, like Beverly and Eddie, need to have something to convince their aunt and mother, respectively.

"I think it's ―"

"I can't." Richie interrupts Mike, not seeming to really notice he's done it. "I have ― something else to do."

Bill's heart immediately drops to his stomach. He wants to insist ― he really wants to talk it out or, at least, end this tension between them for once and for all ―, but he doesn't want to be a pushover, so he keeps his mouth shut, giving Richie a sad look. And, luckily for him or not, he's not the only one to have something to say about Richie's odd behavior ― he's usually the one to complain they should go out more.

"Something else to do?" Eddie frowns. "What can possibly be better than hanging out with us?"

There's a real question in there, maybe some worry too, because Eddie's like that ― and maybe because Richie didn't brag like he usually does. But Bill nows they're not going to get an honest answer as soon as he sees the mischief shining in Richie's eyes.

Well, at least a whole-hearted joke it's better than nothing.

"Some good ol' quality time with your mother, Eds." Richie doesn't try to make Stan give him a highfive ― he's been giving up on that lately ―, but he _does_ make finger guns at Eddie, and the Losers collectively groan.

"Don't call me Eds!"

Richie's smile is one of those rare ones this time ― one of those Bill was so used to see before things went to hell, but that's been lacking on his motormouth friend for a long time now. It's a sincere one, like he's honestly found something funny, and, sadly, it's gone faster than Eddie can say 'gazebos'.

"You're full of shit, Richie!"

Richie freezes, smile plastered on his face, but not quite reaching his eyes anymore. Bill's not the only one to feel the sudden change of the atmosphere ― Stan's face immediately changes from amusement to guilt, as if feeling responsible for it.

"Look, I ―"

"I really gotta go." Richie shakes his head, smile dropping. "I'll tell your mom you said hi, Eds!"

And he's gone, leaving after Eddie's screech of _'It's Eddie, not Eds!',_ disappearing too fast for anyone's liking. It's only when Richie turns a street pedalling as if his life depends on it and vanishing from their line of vision that Mike turns to them.

_"What the hell_ was that?"

Bill shakes his his head, because he doesn't know anymore.

None of them do. 

 

It's happening again.

Richie's world's spiralling out of control, and he doesn't know how to _stop_ it. He throws the bike on the grass in front of his house, not bothering with keeping it up, and runs inside without announcing himself ― he doesn't think mother or father would care anyway, even though they've been keeping tabs on him lately.

He runs straight to the bathroom, because it's the closest he has to a safe place since his room got destroyed ― the door slams shut behind him, and Richie's heart beats viciously inside his chest, too fast, too loud, almost painfully. Richie's barely aware of the tears rolling down his cheeks or the desperate sobs ripping through his chest.

It _hurts._ Richie can only feel the pain, the overflowing pain clawing at his heart and brain, making him lose control of his body, of his legs and arms and mouth. His knees bend and Richie falls, sobbing uncontrollably and pleading for it to _stop, damnit, just stop._

**Beep beep, Richie.**

He cries harder. He pleads louder. Richie's whole body's shaking, and the harder he tries to control it, the worse it gets. He digs his fingers into the palm of his hands until there's blood smearing them, but the pain doesn't ground him, it doesn't clear his mind, it doesn't help him think better.

What did Eddie say that other time? What did he ―

**You're babbling, Trashmouth, stop.**

**Beep beep, Richie.**

**Beep beep, Richie.**

Richie's breath gets caught in his throat, and so do the sobs. He's panicking. _Fuck,_ he's panicking. What did Eds say about panic attacks? Because he _did_ say something, something _important..._

**Don't fucking touch me!**

**Don't call me Eds!**

**Beep beep, Richie.**

Richie covers his ears with his bloody hands, but it does little to nothing to block the sound, to stop the despair, to help him breath.

The only thought ― the only _coherent_ thought, at least ― in his head is that that's it, _that's it, he's going to die here, in this filthy bathroom, in a house where no one gives a fuck about him, and no one would mind, no, no, they might even get happy, he didn't die facing a fucking demon clown but he'll die because he's just a coward freak and no one cares no one cares no one no one noonenoonenoone NO ONE_ ―

**Beep beep, Richie.**

 

(He doesn't die, in the end, but he's not quite living after it either. His legs are weak and shaky, and Richie can't really feel his hands. He feels lightheaded, and it takes some time for him to be able to stand without feeling everything that's around him is rotating, his stomach already upset, his chest sore. Richie rubs his face, eyes dry, and breathing slowly causes his lungs to burn. Part of him wants to cry again, but Richie doesn't think it'll make any difference, and his body's already exhausted as it is ― he barely gathers enough courage to stand and leave the bathroom as it is.

His hands sting like hell, and, though Richie couldn't care less ― at least, not now ―, he doesn't want to get an infection, and he knows the first-aid kit is somewhere in the kitchen because his father said _it'd be a waste to leave it in your bathroom, Richard, you'll only use it for useless things and I'll have to pay for more when you're done._

At least the blood didn't stain his shirt this time, and Richie won't have to clean it himself. He rubs his eyes again, and pain cuts through his hand. Richie bites his lower lip, feeling upset and tired, and makes his way to the kitchen in slow steps. There are tears still drying on his cheeks, and he can't bother to try and clean them off, knowing that he's already with his face stained with blood from touching it before. His steps are slow, quiet, and almost trips on his way downstairs.

Sadly, his mother's at the kitchen this time, sitting at the table with a face full of boredom, sipping a drink Richie can't bother to read the name.

"You're horrible." she says, as soon as he steps inside, and takes another sip. "Did you get into a fight?"

If she didn't sound so uninterested, Richie would think she actually _gives a fuck_ about it.

"No." he gives his hands another look, and, shit. That _does_ look like it'll be a pain in the ass to take care of. "Just fell. Do you know where dad keeps the first-aid kit?"

She looks at him for a moment ― a long, awkward moment goes by, and Richie doesn't look up to stare back at her, not trusting himself with the task of keeping his mouth shut. In the end, his mother just shrugs, turning to her drink again.

"The fourth cabinet at your side, up there. Don't tell your father I told you that. If he asks, it's all on you."

"Ok, mom." Richie sighs, and makes his way to where she told him to.

And there are a lot of meds in there, actually. Meds for the flu, meds for stomach aches, meds that Richie can't count or even recognizes, having no idea what they are about or why should he take them. And it's in that moment, scavenging through the meds in search for what he needs to clean his hands, that Richie comes across something that makes him stop in the spot and stare, mind blank. _Painkillers._ His father's ones ― the ones he uses for his strongest migraines, that always put him down for a while after, making him sleep like a rock.

An idea crosses Richie's mind. He quickly glances at his mother, but she's too busy drinking to pay him any mind. So he does the totally not worth and probably stupidiest thing he's ever done in his entire life: he snatches a tablet, closes the cabinet, and runs to his room.

If Richie can't stop the pain, he can at least _numb it.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't have classes today so it's all fun and games lol  
>  ~~no it's not i know, sORRY~~
> 
> come scream at me @ trashmouthing on tumblr


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They're joking. They're playing with him._ That's got to be it. Richie's not ― he wouldn't have _heard_ it if they didn't have _said_ it. It's a _prank._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new character ahead \o  
> she's nice and she's important and though she doesn't show up much ~~i guess~~ i hope y'all like her!  <3

Richie's been feeling better these days than he's ever felt before.

Sure, he can't run too much, not even pedal his bike as he did before, and anything that involves controlling his breath properly is a big no-no, but things are _okay._ He's _fine._ (It's the eighth time just this morning that he trips over his own shoelaces, but no one's watching, so Richie plays it off and pretends nothing's ever happened. It's not like he doesn't do that _every day_ ― he does. It's just. Something not so common to happen all the time.)

"Guys, what do you thing about going to my house tonight?"

Beverly's suggestion gets everyone's attention in the blink of an eye. Collectively, all the boys turn their eyes on her, all with similar expressions of confusion and shock. Eddie takes out his inhaler. Richie smirks at her.

"That's it, without even a dinner?"

Beverly facepalms, groaning loudly, but only half-heartedly.

"Oh my god, why do I hang out with you?" she shakes her head. "No, Rich. Aunt M wants to meet you all, and said today's a good day for that."

His smirk almost dies at that. The Losers share a look, not quite certain about the suggestion. They don't exactly have a _good_ historic with parents ― Eddie's mother still dislikes all of them, Stan's father thinks they're bad influence, and Richie's screwed if he ever lets them meet his parents. Sure, Beverly's aunt must like them (or have a good impression of them) at least a tiny bit, or she wouldn't let her niece run around with them with little to none complain at all, but still.

"Uh." Bill stutters, and swallows when Beverly turns to give him a hopeful look. "I ― I'm n-not s-sure that's a g-g-good idea."

"Why not?" Ben is the first to speak up when Beverly's face softens into a sad look of understanding, not wanting her to get upset. "I mean. It's just a dinner. What can go wrong?"

Richie can literally count on all his fingers how many things can go wrong with a dinner at a friend's house, but it's one of those rare moments in his life where he manages to keep his mouth shut, biting the inside of his cheeks and watching the other Losers instead of saying something. Ben and Beverly's faces are hopeful, Bill still looks somewhat uncertain, Stan seems thoughtful and Mike's just lost. Eddie's the first to nod his head in agreement.

"As long as I get home by the end of the night, I don't think mom would mind."

Beverly lights up at that, her face glowing like the sun. Richie can't think of any reason why any of them would be able to disappoint her.

"I know a few shortcuts to the farm, so..." Mike is the next to give in, face softening slightly, offering her a smile. "Count me in."

"I don't think father will mind." Stan adds, quietly.

"I accept your dinner offer. Wouldn't miss it for the world, ma lady." Richie bows an imaginary hat at Beverly, smiling devilishly, and she's too busy being happy to backfire at him.

They all collectively turn to look at Bill, and he fidgets nervously. Richie not-so-gently elbows him in the ribs, and the taller boy makes a muffled sound of pain before looking at him, confused. So do almost all the other Losers, a bit surprised at his initiative ― Richie guesses none of them was too good at the whole 'pretending nothing ever happened' thing. Well, it could've been worse.

"C'mon, Bill, don't be a killjoy." Richie offers him a small smile, a peace offer. "It's gonna be fun."

Bill stares at him for a moment, and something in his face _changes._ Richie can see it ― he doesn't know if the others do, too, but it's there. Bill's shoulders relax, and he ends up smiling in return.

"F-Fine, I s-surrender." he gives in.

The Losers celebrate, and Beverly can't take the smile off her face for the rest of the day.

 

Richie dresses up a bit for the dinner, even though he won't admit it, because Beverly's aunt is probably the only adult in Derry who hasn't heard of them, and their first impression can be more than enough to make her decide she doesn't want her niece hanging out with them anymore, and he _definitely_ doesn't want that. Beverly's one of his best friends, and it's not even because they share cigarettes and she doesn't mind his silly jokes, and Richie doesn't want to have the person responsible for her being one of the adults that can't see him without scowling.

In the end, he may have dressed up just a bit _too much,_ because he's the last Loser to show up at her house ― Richie can see all their bikes, and a feeling of dread pools inside his stomach, anxiety starting to crawl inside him and latch onto his bones like poison ivy. _Fuck._ Should he have brought flowers? A present? Maybe something like a dessert? Richie's never done that before, shit, he doesn't know how to be the well-behaved one ― he makes jokes and he messes around, that's all, there's nothing much to add to it.

Before he can lose the courage to do so, Richie knocks at the door, and waits. It's not long after it that there's someone opens it.

"Good night, miss ―"

"You must be Richard Tozier!" before he can properly react, Richie's engulfed in a brief hug that smells like cinnamon. "I've heard a lot about you!"

Richie's brain shortcuts a bit after that.

"Only good things, I hope." he mumbles, and hears a heartfelt laugh. "I prefer Richie, ma'am."

"Oh, Richie, sure, sure, my bad. Come over, enter here, we were waiting for you."

It's only when the woman frees him that Richie can get a proper look at her ― fiery hair cut short, blue eyes brighter than anything Richie's ever seen, she looks exactly like an older version of Beverly, maybe by twenty years, twenty-five at best. Richie finds himself staring, caught off guard by their similarities; it's not only the external appearence, there's also the fire in her eyes, the warmth in her smile, something that tells him to be careful, unless he wants to get burned.

She notices him staring, and her smile softens a bit.

"What?"

"We've got two Molly Ringwalds  with the Losers now." Richie says, before he can control himself, and then blushes, feeling embarassed and a bit stupid. "Sorry, ma'am. I talk when I'm nervous."

She laughs at that, and pulls him inside, closing the door behind him. Richie can get a view of the dining room by where he stands, he can see Beverly and Bill laughing together about something, and Ben sitting close to them, a small smile on his face. They seem comfortable, wearing their normal clothes, and Richie feels a bit out of place, maybe overdressed for it.

"Drop the formalities, Richie. From now on, I'm only aunt Molly, gotcha?" she gently guides him through the house. "Come on. Your friends are waiting."

And it's probably the first time in his entire life that Richie doesn't feel _wrong._

 

(Aunt Molly's lasagna is the best food Richie's had in his entire life, and he makes sure to tell her that much, between spoonfuls of it and long sips of soda ― Eddie gives him harsh looks, as if trying to remember Richie to have _manners,_ and Stan's having a hard time fighting off his smile, covering his mouth and pretending the small sounds that escape are him coughing and not just repressed laughter. Bill and Beverly share amused looks, as if they have an inside joke no other Loser knows about ― Mike's busy eating, and Ben seems a bit shy still.

"Uh, sorry, ma ― aunt Molly." Richie corrects himself as soon as he notices the elderly woman arching an eyebrow at him. "For my, uh, bad manners."

She dismisses his apologies with a movement of her hand, shaking her head right after.

"What cute friends you have, Bevvie!" Molly gives her niece an approving smile. "They're all so respectful and kind. I feel you've really got the good ones this time, I kind of understand why you go out with them so much."

It's Richie's time to give Eddie a sharp look, ready to fight because _hell, he's not doing anything wrong, she likes them, see?,_ but the other's too busy seeming surprised by her statement to pay him any mind. Richie scoffs, rolling his eyes and going back to his piece of lasagna, munching happily. He doesn't get _why_ he should be the one to be more careful about it ― sure, he _does_ talk shit sometimes, maybe more often than not and certainly more than he should, but _damn._ Now they've put into his mind that he's the one who makes bad impressions, and Richie's a bit upset for having to worry more than necessary about this dinner.

He looks up and, on the other side of the table, Ben looks quite upset at something. Richie kicks him lightly, and the boy almost jumps out of his skin, head snapping up to see what's going on. Richie offers him a smile, and it's definitely _not_ a beautiful sight, with sauce on his mouth and all, but it seems to be enough.

Ben brightens up a bit, and Richie considers his job done for the night.) 

 

"So, Bevvie..."

After dinner's done and they've all helped Molly with the dishes, they're comfortably scattered around the living room, sharing small talk. Ben, Beverly and Bill are on the couch, and she's showing them a few pictures she took from Portland when she went there with her aunt. Mike and Eddie are on the other couch with a big book in their hands, Molly's on the armchair and both Richie and Stan are sitting on the carpet, Richie still sipping a can of soda. At Molly's voice, all of them stop what they're doing to look at her ― it makes the woman smile.

"I know you didn't accept this dinner without something in mind."

Beverly ― surprisingly enough ― blushes, red coloring her cheeks and ears. Molly's smile grows a bit, as if she knew her niece's plans all along. There's an expectant moment of silence.

"Uh, so ―" Beverly clears her throat, pushes her hair out of her face. "The boys and I were, uh, thinking that it'd be nice to spend another day at Mike's farm."

Oh. _Oh._ Richie gets it now. He almost forgot that Mike already gave them the thumbs up for talking with the people responsible for them, to sleep a night at his grandfather's farm. If the Losers' faces of confusion are anything to go by, he wasn't the only one to forget about it ― apparently, Beverly's the only one who's been planning this for a long time. Molly's face is open, nodding in approval, and that seems enough of an incentive for Beverly to keep going.

"I wanted to know if I could sleep there with them after."

Silence. None of them can stare at the elderly woman now.

"Oh, Bev." Molly's voice gets sad. "You know I can't let you do that."

Richie's heart drops to his stomach. Well, _fuck._

"What would people in Derry think?" the adult shakes her head. "You know they're full of shit."

Beverly looks down sadly, and there's a moment of awkwardness in the room.

 _"But."_ all of them immediately look at her. Molly's face softens slightly. "I can drive all of you there by the morning, and take you all to your homes by the end of the night. _And_ you can arrange a day for the boys to sleep here, I don't mind, just give me a heads up about it."

It's better than nothing, Richie guesses ― and Beverly's face lights up, so, he considers it a win-win.

"Thank you, aunt M!"

Molly dismisses it with a shake of her head.

"Don't worry about it, Bevvie." and then she looks at the clock hanging on the wall before turning back to them and offering a sweet smile. "Well, I need to go now, children, tomorrow's going to be a long day. Good night, Bevvie, good night, boys."

There's a collective chorus of _'Good night, aunt Molly',_ and then she goes off to her room. It’s only when the door to the main bedroom closes that Beverly sighs, shoulders relaxing completely ― she sighs deeply, but it’s not a sad sigh, just a tired one.

“Well, at least I tried.” she smiles that sweet smile of hers, eyes crinckling a bit at the corners. “That was better than expected, wasn’t it?”

“Your aunt is fucking awesome.” Richie’s the first to speak up, and can’t help the small feeling of jealously that blooms inside his chest. Hell, he wishes _he_ could have an aunt like that to run away from his parents ― sadly for him, none of his aunts or uncles gives a fuck.

“I like her.” Stans chimes in, nodding quietly.

“An-And s-she l-likes us.” Bill adds. “T-That’s i-important.”

“She offered for us to sleep here!” Eddie whisper-yells. “Not even my mother does this! She prefers letting me sleep over than let any of you sleep there!”

“That’s not what she said last night when ―”

**“Beep beep, Richie.”**

He freezes, and the soda can slips through his fingers before falling to the ground, splashing everywhere. Stan’s the one to let out a loud _‘Fuck!’,_ because he’s the closest one and, obviously, the one to get more damage. And Richie stares, frozen in shock, when the Losers scatter to take care of the mess he’s just made. There’s someone talking to him, they _all_ seem to be talking, but Richie can’t hear a single word, a small noise that comes from the back of his mind blocking everything that comes from outside.

“Richie!” someone slaps him gently, hand cold, voice distant. _“Richie!”_

It’s only when the slap comes stronger that Richie realizes someone’s holding his face tightly ― the one that comes into his focus right in front of him is Mike, eyebrows furrowed together, eyes full of worry.

“You okay there, buddy?”

“I ― What?”

Richie’s tongue feels heavy; he barely manages to say it out loud, cold sweat sliding down the back of his neck, making him feel clammy and gross.

"You zoned out." Stan ― that only now Richie realizes it's holding him in place ― is the one to answer that, and Richie doesn't need to see him to feel the concern in his posture. "Didn't even finish your joke."

He ― _what?_ They didn't ― _no. No, they did. They_ told him to shut up, they _said_ it. Richie _heard_ them saying... But he looks up, and all Losers are staring at him with a mix of fear and uneasiness, almost as if ― almost as if he's _scared_ them. Something inside Richie breaks, and the pointy remains bruise him all over.

 _They're joking. They're playing with him._ That's got to be it. Richie's not ― he wouldn't have _heard_ it if they didn't have _said_ it. It's a _prank._ It needs to be.

Nothing in the world can compare to the utter feeling of _betrayal_ that grows inside him.

“I have to go home.” he says, and the words come easier this time, emptier. “It’s getting late.”

 _He shouldn’t have come. He shouldn’t. Mother and father will_ ― hell, Richie doesn’t want to think about that. He frees himself from both Stan and Mike and stands, nausea washing over him and making his hands start to shake. He immediately regrets doing it so fast.

“Sorry for your carpet, Bev.”

“Rich...”

“Goodnight, guys.”

Beverly sees he’s not joking about it ― and she sees something else, too, that makes her eyes sadden and a lump form in her throat. When Bill opens his mouth to say something, she holds his wrist to call his attention and shakes her head, telling him not to push it, not to press Richie into explaining. Not here, not now.

“If that’s what you want.”

Richie’s trying to convince himself that it is ― he doesn’t stay for long enough to find out.

 

(There’s blood in his mouth, and in his hands, and everywhere. Richie brushes his skin and scratches the red spots until he’s bleeding to clean it off, but it only causes it to spread faster ― everything’s red: the bathroom tiles, his skin, the liquid running down his body and into the drain, and Richie feels nauseated again.

His whole world’s a floating red ballon that’s going to _explode._

The blood never leaves.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbh i don't have any idea what to tell about this chapter
> 
> it's kind of a watershed, things will start getting bad, angst will come, etc., etc.
> 
> scream at me @ trashmouthing on tumblr \o


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fucking demoniac clown wasn’t enough to tear them apart, but secrets might just do so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhm g U Y S 1k+ hits and 100+ kudos ?????? I'M SCREAMING SOMEONE PLS SEND HELP
> 
> thank you ♡ like, for real ♡ I didn't think you'd like this story so much, I'm in t E A R S ; - ;
> 
> ALSO, WHAT WAS THAT ?? WE GOT 15 (!!!!!) COMMENTS LAST CHAPTER!!! I don't think I've ever received so much feedback in my entire life, holy shit, tHANK YOU ♡
> 
> I hope y'all will like this chapter ♡ important notes at the end! ♡
> 
> (i'm kinda posting this in a rush, so, I'll answer the comments as soon as i get home ♡)

Richie’s avoiding them.

Richie’s avoiding them, and Bill _doesn’t know why._ He’s already repassed every single moment they were together, hell, he even _wrote_ them, but he can’t think of anything that could’ve caused this behavior ― at least, nothing except the incident at Beverly’s house, and Bill can’t understand _why_ that would make Richie avoid them like the plague.

They haven’t done anything wrong ― hell, _Richie_ hasn’t done anything wrong, why does he keep running away as if he can’t bear to _look_ at them? Today’s not a good day, and, when Bill meets Beverly at the back of school, he finds out things can get _worse._

Beverly’s eyes are rimmed red, and, when she notices him coming her way, she fastly rubs her face and picks up a cigarette. Bill hears her sniffling when he gets closer, and his heart makes an _awful_ thing inside his chest ― Bill tries to offer her a smile, but his mouth’s trembling, and he’s sure it looks more like a grimace.

It’s the first time Beverly doesn’t try to pretend things are alright ― she looks away as soon as her eyes start to get glassy, and Bill’s trembling smile disappears immediately. He wants to reach out to her, to wrap an arm around her shoulders and offer her comfort when he himself can barely hold it together. But there’s something about her shoulders, about how Beverly holds herself and keeps her head low that makes him _know_ it wouldn’t be a good move, so Bill keeps his hands to himself.

“I-Is ev-everything okay, B-Bev?”

She shrugs, holding the cigarette carefully and twirling it around her fingers. The smell of smoke doesn’t bother Bill like it did before, but he still takes a deep breath before Beverly blows the nicotine out.

“I don’t know.” she admits, very quietly, in the same voice she admited that she doesn’t feel like a loser with their friends. “Are _you_ okay?”

Bill’s not really sure. He doesn’t feel _bad,_ per se, but... It’s still not a good feeling, the one crawling under his skin and making him stir, hands shaking just the tiniest bit, moving his legs nervously.

“I’m worried about Richie.” Beverly finally admits, when she notices Bill’s not going to say anything. “He hasn’t ― hasn’t been himself lately.”

“D-Do y-yo-you ―” Bill swallows hard, angry at himself for all the stuttering, closing his hands into fists to try and focus on something else. “D-Do you t-think s-s-something happened?”

He needs to know if he’s the only one with that paranoia or if there’s someone else also thinking about it. By the way Beverly’s eyebrows get furrowed and she presses her lips together tightly, Bill already knows the answer he’ll get.

“He’s not telling us.” she bites her lower lip, and there it is again, the same hurt in her eyes, the fiery strenght burning deep within her soul, the _something else_ that makes Bill’s heart feel like a caged bird inside his chest. _“Why?”_

A fucking demoniac clown wasn’t enough to tear them apart, but secrets might just do so. And the worst part is that Bill can’t even try and say he doesn’t understand, because, _hell,_ he _does._ He gets what it is like to have certain things ― certain _fears,_ even ― that you don’t want to share with anyone else, not even your closest friends, not even the people you’d die for.

Bill won’t tell them about his bad days, and Richie won’t spill the beans about whatever it is that’s making him act so strangely around them.

“I c-can t-talk t-to h-him.” he suggests, and Beverly turns to look at him curiously, caught off guard by the softness in his voice. “W-What d-d-do y-you t-think?”

“He’s not much the talkative type.” Beverly’s smile is sad. “Not about those type of things.”

That’s true and Bill knows it.

“W-We c-can t-try, at l-least.” because they’re friends, they’re Losers, and Losers don’t give up on each other like that. Bill doesn’t want to make Richie talk, not if he doesn’t want it ― Bill wants to make him realize that the Losers, all of them, will always be here, they’ll always have his back. “P-Promise I’ll t-try my b-best.”

_For him. For you. For all of us._

The sadness in Beverly’s eyes dulls, and her gaze on him is full of care and gentleness.

“Thank you, Bill.”

He may not know why she’s thanking him, but, either way, it lifts a weight off his shoulders.

Bill offers her a smile ― a real one this time.

 

Ben’s sad.

He doesn’t know exactly why, he just ― feels that way.

Sometimes, more often than not, he finds himself with the same dread feeling from before, the fear pooling inside him, ready to spill out at any moment. And Ben, well, Ben _hates_ it.

He’s never asked for any of this, and neither did any of the Losers, but here they are: dealing with the aftermath of killing (and did they even _kill_ it for real? Ben’s afraid to ask) a stupid, supernatural child murderer, and no one seems to give a single fuck ― _almost_ no one, at least.

Ben’s mother’s worried about him, she already told him a million times, and she wants to talk with him about things; Beverly’s aunt also seems nice, but that’s it. It’s over the immense list of ‘Adults In Derry Who Would Mind If Something Happened’, and that bothers Ben to no end.

They’re just _children,_ what the fuck.

Why does _no one_ want to know what they have to say?

(Sometimes, Ben looks at the H carved on his belly and thinks he _knows.)_

 

Bill’s up to something, Richie has a _feeling._

A few days of not talking and mostly avoiding contact don’t magically erase almost ten years of friendship, and Richie already developed his own kind of sixth sense about this kind of thing. So, it’s not really a surprise for him to leave the school after the last class and find Bill waiting for him next to his bike, almost as if he’d skipped class just for that ― what’s stupid, seriously, because Bill doesn’t do this kind of thing.

Richie looks down, fighting off the urge to turn around and run to the other side. He’s not a coward, he won’t do that. After all, Bill’s still his ― friend. _Best friend. Fuck, Richie, what did you **do?**_

He passes the taller boy and almost breathes out in relief when Bill doesn’t do anything, counting the steps to take his bike and _disappear._ Five, four, three...

“R-R-Richie!”

He stops dead in tracks, cursing at himself for it. While Richie gathers courage for what’s about to happen, Bill approaches, face a mix of uncertainty and anxiousness.

“We ― we n-need t-t-to t-talk.”

And Richie’s not an asshole, he knows this voice, he knows when Bill’s nervous about things and how _upset_ he gets when his stutter gets in the way of expressing himself. He doesn’t even _considers_ pretending he didn’t hear ― before Richie can even _process_ what’s going on, he already turned around to face the other Loser.

Bill’s got the same straight face of every single time Richie’s ever heard him make a speech ― the only difference is that, this time, Richie can _see_ the fear inside his eyes, the worry, the tension in his shoulders, and he wishes he _couldn’t._ Things would be a tiny bit easier if he didn’t.

“Do we?” he asks, not because he wants to _argue,_ but because he wants to _understand._

Richie’s _always_ fucking things up, and they’re always forgiving him or playing it off and pretending nothign’s ever happened. It makes him want to _cry,_ and it makes him want to _leave._ They don’t deserve all the bullshit Richie puts them through ― if not even his _family_ gives a fuck, why should the Losers?

_They’re better off without him._

“We d-do.” though he splutters the words, Bill’s face is serious.

Richie bites the inside of his cheeks, pushes the glasses up his nose. _He’s still weak,_ and what then? He misses the Losers, he misses his friends. Maybe, if he tried harder, if he put more time into _keeping his mouth shut..._ Richie swallows dry.

“I’m listening.”

And Bill has the _audacity_ to look caught off guard by that, almost as if he were expecting Richie would just turn around and run to the mountains ― not like he didn’t _consider_ it, but still. It makes him think that waht’s happening, all this bullshit, and how it’s _fucking hilarious_ for _them_ to be walking in eggshells around each other. Bill was never afraid to call him out on his bullshit, Richie was never afraid to say whatever came to his mind, and now...

“Y-You k-know we ― we’re f-f-friends, r-right?” Bill starts off slowly, as if working things out inside his head before saying them will make him feel better. Richie knows he’s talking about the Losers, because that’s what ‘we’ always meant. “Y-You c-can t-trust us w-w-with any-anything.”

The stutter’s getting worse. Bill ― big, brave, bold Bill ― is _anxious._ Suddenly, Richie feels ten times worse.

“I know.” he pushes the glasses up his nose again, like he always does when he’s feeling nervous or uncomfortable. “I ― I know, Bill.”

He’s an idiot, sure, but he also knows that. They may have hurt him and they may have made him feel betrayed, but they’re still _friends._ They should talk it out, not break apart.

“T-Then w-why d-don’t you t-t-talk to u-us?” Bill goes straight to the point, knowing that beating around the bush won’t help them at all ― and he sounds _upset._ “We ― we c-can s-see t-t-there’s s-something b-bothering you.”

Oh, _that’s_ something Richie doesn’t want to talk about. He immediately tenses up, frowning at his best friend.

“Bill ―”

“Y-You’re d-doing it a-again.” Bill’s eyes are sad and _fuck, don’t look at me like that, please, don’t._ “W-What is it, R-Richie? A-Are y-you h-having p-p-problems at h-home? D-Did one of ― of us s-s-say s-something that ― that h-hurt y-you?”

_No, no. You didn’t do anything, Bill, god, no. It’s **me.** **I** am the problem. **I** am wrong. Please, stop. Please._

“D-Does it ― does it have s-something to d-do with ― with IT?”

That does the trick. Richie’s shoulders get tense, and he lashes out without really thinking about it.

“Stop that, Bill. You’re not ― you’re not my _brother,_ okay?! You don’t have to take care of me all the time, damn!”

Bill looks at him, and he’s not even _surprised._ It makes Richie feel like an asshole, because, _shit,_ this was something _cruel_ to say, even for someone like him. He _didn’t have_ to do this ― not like that, not now, maybe never.

They may not be blood related, but Bill _always_ treated him like a brother, _always_ treated him like family.

“O-Okay.” Bill says, softly, so softly Richie almost can’t hear how _upset_ he sounds under all this self-control. “I ― I’ll s-s-stop b-bothering y-you.”

He turns, and Richie’s whole world crashes. _Stupid. Why did he have to be so stupid?_ Bill didn’t do _anything._ He’s just _worried,_ what the fuck. Richie didn’t have the _right_ to tell him that.

Before he can dwell much on it, before Bill can leave, Richie lets himself be guided by instinct, throwing himself at the other Loser and wrapping both arms around him, pressing the tip of his nose against Bill’s back. He’s shaking. They’re both shaking. Richie wants to cry so bad it _hurts._

“I’m sorry.” he chokes out, body shaking, breath coming out in ragged rasps. “I ― Bill, I’m _fucking sorry.”_

He can’t _breath._ Holy fuck, _he can’t breath._ Bill notices something’s wrong before Richie can even start panicking, and turns around to hold him. Richie clings to him like a lifeline, his eyes burning with unshed tears, and Bill can feel him shaking whole, knees weak, his breath uneven.

“It’s okay, Trashmouth.” Bill wraps both arms around him gently, allowing him closeness, allowing him to hide against his chest, to let himself vulnerable. “I didn’t ― didn’t w-want to p-push y-y-you.”

Richie’s a ticking bomb, and both of them know that. He tightens his fingers around Bill’s flannel shirt, and takes a deep breath that makes his lungs _burn._

“I ― It’s my ― my parents.” he lies, because he can’t bear to be the one to say how shitty things have been since that stupid day in the sewers. Maybe it’s just for him, and that’s why everyone looks strangely at him ― Richie’s the only one freaking out over _nothing._ “They ― they have been fighting ― a lot.”

Bill doesn’t need to know they’ve been fighting a lot _with Richie_ ― that’s not what he asked, and there’s no need for him to worry about things he can’t control.

“I ― I’m just t-tired.”

This part is real. The aching, desperate pain gnawing at his chest makes Richie feels _exhausted._ He’s fucking tired of all this bullshit ― tired of being blamed for things he didn’t do or things he doesn’t have fault that happened, tired of feeling the world’s out to get him, tired of crying himself to sleep.

Richie wants it to _stop._

“Y-You c-c-can st-stay over if ― if you want.” Bill suggests, and pats him gently on the hair. “M-My p-parents w-won’t m-m-mind. W-We can t-talk with t-the others.”

It’s not the offer but rather the raw emotion in his words that makes Richie nod quietly, accepting it ― Bill makes him realize something. _Richie’s freaking out._ He’s fucking freaking out again, panicking completely, allowing himself to give in to the fear. The more he distances himself from the others, the harder he tries, the worse it gets.

Richie can’t drag the Losers down with him ― and he won’t.

“Thank you, Bill.”

They’ll realize he’s no good to them on their own.

 

Stan doesn’t really like to spend time at the synagogue now, because it makes him think of the horrible lady and the scars at the both sides of his face ― but then, again, he’s the rabbi’s son, and his father would never allow him to stay away for too long; not these days, at least.

It’s harder when there’s no one else in there ― when it’s just Stan, and the silence makes him feel like drowning. Today is not one of those days.

“Fuck!”

Stan thinks he’s hearing things, at first; that all the craziness of the recent events finally caught him. But then there’s noise again, and a few more curses, and Stan turns around to see a small boy sitting in one of the back rows, eyes screwed shut, looking tense.

Of all people Stan would expect to find at the synagogue, specially after everything, Richie tozier _definitely_ wasn’t one of them. It’s not even because he doesn’t seem the _type_ to do so, but because Richie never gave a clue that he _cared_ about this type of thing.

He recalls what Bill told the Losers this morning, about how serious he was when he asked them not to push Richie, not to pressure him ― he recalls the determination in his eyes when he told them Richie’s having problems at home, and that he doesn’t want him to think he’ll have to tell them things if he wants to keep hanging out with them. Right now, Richie doesn’t seem like he’s being ― or feeling ― forced to do anything.

Could it be that he came looking for _peace?_

“You can’t curse inside a synagogue, Richie.”

The other Loser almost jumps out of his skin at the sound of Stan’s voice, and opens his eyes to see him approaching. Stan sits at his side, and Richie drops his gaze to his own hands, resting on his thighs. There’s an upbeat of silence, and then Richie sighs deeply, throwing his head back to stare at the ceiling.

“Mom and dad used to go to church before... Well, before things went to shit.” Stan gives him a pointed look, but Richie doesn’t see it. “It was a Christian one, I think, I’m not really sure.”

He stops, and Stan doesn’t pressure him into telling more. They stay in silence for a long time, Richie still staring at the ceiling, Stan with eyes on him, watching. It’s not a comfortable silence, but it’s not a tense one either. It’s just... A bit different from what they’re used to when they’re together.

“I don’t remember how to pray.” Richie admits, finally, voice small. “I try and I try and I try, but... I don’t remember. It just ― doesn’t feel _right,_ you know?”

He doesn’t ― _oh._ Oh. Stan’s face softens just the tiniest bit. He also turns to look at the ceiling.

“You know that you don’t have to actually _say_ something for it to be a prayer, right?”

The information seems to surprise Richie, and he sits straighter, blinking curiously. Stan doesn’t move, giving him space and time to think about it.

“I don’t?” Richie sounds lost, and Stan can _hear_ the frown in his voice, the confusion that makes his statement sound like a question. “But I always see ― that doesn’t make sense, Stan.”

“The cerimony is a ritualistic thing, Richie.” Stan shakes his head, and gives him a gentle tap in the shoulder before looking at him. “Your prayer doesn’t need to be like anyone else’s, as long as it brings you peace.”

Richie’s frown softens slightly.

“So I don’t need to talk?”

“Why would you?”

It’s an honest question, but Richie’s mind’s already too far gone for him to be able to answer. He takes a long, really long time to move or say anything ― when he does, in fact, turns to the other Loser again, Richie takes Stan by surprise.

“Will you pray with me?”

He sounds... Kind of childish. _Almost hopeful._ Stan doesn’t have the heart to refuse, so he ends up nodding. Richie offers him a hand and, although confused, Stan accepts. Richie hums softly, interlaces their fingers and closes his eyes.

And they stay.

Stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, there's something I kinda want to adress about this chapter: Stan. I'm not Jew (tbh, I'm not religious), and I've never been at a synagogue before. I don't have much contact with religious people beside my Christian parents, so I mostly have no idea how it works, and I didn't want to sound insensitive, so you're free to call me out in case anything about the last scene came off as offensive or anything of sorts.
> 
> PLUS in one unrelated note, but still talking about Stan, I actually quite _like_ his relationship with his parents in the book (though the movie kinda made them dirty), so, no, they're not opressive nor neglectful nor anything like that about their son. Also, the sole reason Stan feels uncomfortable at the synagogue is that it reminds him of the lady in the painting and he's still not ready for dealing with those memories, you can @ fight me on this.
> 
> ~~just because I'm not adressing most of the other Losers' struggles doesn't mean they're not there~~
> 
> I think that's it? tbh my memory's awful lol
> 
> you can talk to me at @ trashmouthing on tumblr! :D i'm doing requests for Halloween, if any of you are interested in it \o (you can send me an ask to know what kind of content i'm up to writing)
> 
> thnks again, love y'all, see you in Halloween! ♡


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As long as everyone’s okay, and everyone seems to be, Ben doesn’t mind not knowing ― because caring means he has enough patience to wait and, sometimes, the knowledge that you may end up not knowing anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we have bonding time with the Losers and more Mike&Richie (because we got almost nothing of it until now), whAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG?
> 
> hint: a lot
> 
> tw: it's a chapter a bit more graphic than the others have been up until now about the side effects of taking meds wrong

Richie’s hands are clammy and his breath is uneven. His pupils are dilated, his lips pale, and there’s cold sweat at the back of his neck. He plays it off because they’re watching horror movies at Bill’s house, but Eddie will soon convince them to stop testing their own limits and to marathonate romcoms for the rest of the night, and then Richie’s alibi will blow up.

He thinks life has a sick sense of humor, and the Losers are keen on making it worse ― a few months ago, they’d all be screaming and laughing, throwing popcorn at each other and making fun of each other’s faces. Now? They all hundled up together, touching somehow, and Richie can swear he’s seen Eddie crying a bit once or twice, hiding his face against Ben’s shoulder even though his fingers cling onto Richie’s pajama’s shirt for dear life. Horror movies should be banned, is what Richie thinks, after the fourth or fifth scare in less than twenty minutes.

Bill’s the only one that stares at the screen without even batting an eyelash, it’s a bit creepy, and Mike’s the closest to him in terms of not reacting at the movie at all; he barely moves, an arm wrapped around Richie’s shoulders, the other keeping Stan close ― the latter and Beverly, surprisingly enough, are the ones who keep on commenting the movie, cursing loudly and screaming every time the protagonist does something stupid that can cause someone else’s death in the plot.

“No, no, don’t do that!”

“You’re gonna ― oh, fuck, now she’s dead!”

“How does someone _do_ that?!”

Richie takes time watching them, because it distracts him from the actual fear that installs itself inside him whenever something scary pops out in the screen. He’s never been really _scared_ of horror movies ― always thought of them as creative but senseless things ―, but now, fuck. If it’s possible for a fucking _bogart_ to live in Derry’s sewers, then, hell, what else is out there in the wild? Demons? Vampires? Fucking _werewolves?_

“Okay, that’s it, I gotta pee!” ignoring the high-pitched scream Eddie gives when he moves, Richie frees himself from him and Mike, offering the other Losers a fake confused look when they immediately turn to stare at him. “What? A man’s gotta do what a ―”

“But my feet!” Eddie immediately curls against Ben’s side, and, honestly, Richie’s starting to find this whole deal _hilarious._

“No monster’s going to grab your feet, Eds, they smell!”

The indignant noise that comes out of Eddie’s mouth’s got Richie laughing while he leaves ― and the furious _‘It’s **Eddie!’**_ that follows snaps Bill from whatever it is the state he’s in.

“Go to the bathroom upstairs! Dad’s reforming the one down here, a can exploded two days ago.”

Richie groans, already halfway through the kitchen, and turns around to go back to the living room to take the stairs, walking faster this time.

“Got it!”

Richie hates the stairs of Bill’s house, not because they seem eternal, but because he always gets the feeling he’ll fall from them ― it’s not a nice feeling, if you’d ask him. Either way, by the time he’s finally upstairs, Richie has to basically _run_ to the bathroom, all the soda he drank finally catching up to him.

The bathroom from Bill’s house, different from Richie’s, is all clean and free of nasty marks all over the tiles, all blue and white, and, honestly, it’s a nice distraction, but _why the hell_ is Richie losing his time with this? He shakes his head, resisting the urge to laugh at himself for how silly he sounds.

He washes his hands, humming quietly to himself a tune he’s not sure where he first heard, avoiding looking at the mirror. The water’s cold, and the numb feeling it brings to his hands makes him think of something else ― of tiny white pills between his fingers, the lightheaded feeling that comes right after taking them, the way he sleeps so easily, without almost none struggle.

Richie shakes his head, nauseated, and swallows dry before turning around to leave ― and the world turns with him, spiralling out of control. His legs fail, knees hitting the floor, and Richie finds himself clutching at his belly, gasping when pain burns hot at the pitch of his stomach, bile rising up to his throat.

 _Fuck._ Richie knows that feeling all too well, and he has to crawl his way back to the toilet before he ends up throwing up all over Bill’s tidy bahtroom. And he feels awful ― not only figuratively, but, like, for real. His throat burns, his body’s aching, and cold tears slid down his face while his upset stomach makes him get rid of all the junk food he ate for dinner. That’s been happening a lot lately, mostly during nighttime or if Richie gets too worked up over something, and he doesn’t know _why._ Richie thinks he might be getting sick, but he doesn’t remember doing anything that could’ve gotten him sick ― he hasn’t been playing in the barrens like he used to, and he didn’t eat anything different in the last few days.

He groans, and his fingers’ grip tighten on the toilet, nausea washing over him once again, despair bringing even more tears to his eyes, his lips trembling, his whole body shaking. Richie closes his eyes and starts counting, slowly, taking deep breaths in between, trying his best to free his mind from all the thoughts making it hurt.

He remembers shiny red balloons floating. A flyer of a missing person with his face printed on it. Terror filling him up to the bones, the fear of losing his friends stronger than anything Richie’s ever felt before.

His stomach churns.

Richie retches again, and, this time, what comes out of his mouth is _blood._

 

The boys end up doing a sleepover after aunt Molly comes to take Beverly ― who leaves with the promise she’ll find a way to convince the woman to let her stay the next time ―, because no one’s in the mood to take their bikes and pedal back home. To be quite honest, Ben wouldn’t really mind ― there are few things in Derry able to scare him now that the Bowers’ gang and IT are gone ―, but he thinks it’ll be cool to enjoy this time with the Losers.

And they _do_ end up kind of talking, but it’s more like a half-hearted argument between Eddie and Richie, about where they should be and why ― Eddie thinks they should sleep upstairs because of the bathroom; Richie defends they should sleep downstairs because of the kitchen.

“The kitchen?!” Eddie’s voice breaks awkwardly. “You ate almost all snacks by yourself already!”

Richie gasps offendedly, putting a hand over his heart in a dramatic manner.

“My, oh, my!” he shakes his head. “Some of us have to grow, Eddie Spaghetti! We can’t all stay cute and tiny like you forever!”

Stan facepalms. Ben and Mike share an amused look. Eddie gets really, really red ― none of them can say if it’s because of the hint that he’s a very small boy for his age or if it’s because Richie called him cute. Either way, Bill shakes his head tiredly, even though they all know he’s not really angry ― it’s all for the show.

“G-Guys.” he calls them, and all other five boys turn to look at him. “I ― I t-think it’s b-better if w-we s-s-sleep in m-my r-room.” and, because Richie looks like he’s about to complain, Bill adds: “W-We c-can take s-snacks with u-us.”

All boys satisfied, they move their things to Bill’s room ― or, in Richie’s case, the snacks. Ben doesn’t really ask, because he doesn’t think it’s in his right to do so, but he’s noticed that Richie’s gotten close to them again, and that the curious fact has something to do with him apparently having a small share of clothes at Bill’s house. As long as everyone’s okay, and everyone seems to be, Ben doesn’t mind not knowing ― because caring means he has enough patience to wait and, sometimes, the knowledge that you may end up not knowing anything at all.

They manage to make a cozy, comfy place at Bill’s bedroom, with a lot of blankets and pillows, and, by the time they’re finished, Richie’s sound asleep, taking more than half of Bill’s bed, all sprawled out and hugging a pillow tightly. He’s even drolling a bit.

Even Stan laughs at Eddie’s furious complaints.

 

Mike jolts awake at a strange sound coming from somewhere near him.

At first, there’s the dizziness of just waking up in an unexpected manner, his heart beating fast inside his chest, confusion flooding his veins once he trashes around and notices there’s nothing out of ordinary. Mike frowns, fingers clutching at the pillow under his head, and rubs his eyes a bit before turning around, facing the ceiling.

He thinks it must’ve been just a weird dream or something like that ― but then Mike closes his eyes and is already drifting off to sleep when he hears again: the gurling, strange sound of someone choking, breath hitching, a sad noise of lungs collapsing. Mike’s standing and in alert before he can even fully _process_ what he’s heard.

It’s easy to find the source of the sound once he knows what to search for ― the weird, worrying noises come from Richie, still on the bed, who’s so curled up at the edge he might fall at any moment, clutching at his stomach and breathing erratically. Mike doesn’t even need proper light to see how _pale_ the boy is, cold sweat covering his shivering body, lips blue-ish, eyebrows furrowed together and face set in a scowl of pain.

And Mike shouldn’t be _so_ surprised, he shouldn’t have been caught off guard when he notices Richie’s half-closed eyes staring at him, full of emotions he can’t understand. The boy opens his mouth, but he’s shaking so much and breathing so hard it’s almost impossible to discern the weak words escaping from his lips; when a single tear runs down Richie’s cheek, however, Mike decides he doesn’t need to know.

Slowly, too slowly, carefully, he reaches out for the boy, who seems confused. Mike shakes his head and picks him up, Richie’s thin ― has he ever been so _thin?_ ― frame acomodating quite easily against the other’s arms. Richie’s fingers latch onto his shirt, shaky hands cold, and Mike does his best to carry him out of the room without stepping onto any other Loser or making too much noise.

Richie doesn’t talk, and Mike doesn’t try to ask. He doesn’t struggle to carry the boy to the bathroom, and, at the back of his mind, this worries him ― Richie _shouldn’t_ be so _light,_ it shouldn’t be so _easy_ to take him and carry him, _nor_ Mike should be able to feel his ribs through his pajamas. It makes him frown, careful not to hold him too tight, afraid of the possibility of ever hurting him, and, when they’re finally at the bathroom, close the door soundlessly and guide the Loser in his arms to the toilet.

It’s not hard to help Richie kneel, but Mike has to ignore the upset look the other gives him when he sits at his side, a hand carefully on his back, the other already pushing Richie’s hair out of the way.

“Spit it out.” Mike tells him, gently.

Richie grimaces, and tears gather at the corner of his eyes. He tries to say something, but closes his mouth right after, and there’s the choking noise again, the awkward sound. Mike sighs, rubs his back quietly, and Richie looks a little green, like he’s about to pass out.

“Spit it out.” Mike says, again, and, this time, instead of trying to argue, Richie turns his face to the toilet, gags and, finally, throws up.

Mike looks away, but keeps him close, rubbing gentle circles against Richie’s back, making sure to keep the boy’s hair out of his face. He doesn’t keep track of time, but it seems a lot has passed before Richie stops doing retching sounds, body shaking ever so slightly, and there are tears slowly running down his cheeks, sweat making his hair humid, a tremor Mike knows has nothing to do with the situation he’s in shaking his body all over.

“Better?” Mike’s not really expecting an answer, but the weak nod Richie gives him is a pleasant surprise. “Do you want my help to stand?”

For a moment, just a moment, Richie looks like he’s about to refuse, but then his shoulders drop, and he nods weakly again. Mike wastes no time flushing the toilet, standing and helping him to get to the sink, letting Richie to hold it on his own, but staying close in case his legs fail, in case his knees bend or he can’t hold himself.

Richie rinses his mouth twice and throws water at his own face, not seeming to mind he’s making a mess all over his shirt and hair. Worry chews on Mike’s heart, and all he can do is reach out and keep a grounding hand against the other Loser’s back, trying to tell him, wordlessly, that Mike’s here if he ever needs him.

“Don’t tell the others.” Richie rasps out, voice hoarse, fingers holding tightly onto the sink, without looking at him.

Mike immediately frowns, unable to understand. ‘The others’, he knows, are the other Losers, probably the ones sleeping soundly right now. Richie makes it sound like it’d be something horrible, like they shouldn’t know ― like Mike himself shouldn’t know, but Richie didn’t have a choice about that.

“But...”

_“Mike.”_

Richie’s voice fails, and Mike finally gets it. He gets it when the other Loser looks up at the ceiling, still avoiding eye contact, and fresh tears roll down his cheeks, dripping from his chin to his hands and the sink. He gets it when Richie sniffles and tries to push the tears back, holding the sobs, swallowing the pain, and his shoulders hunch up forcefully, because Richie has an image to keep, because that’s what he does, because pretending things are okay is probably his way of dealing with them.

And Mike can’t push him. He can’t take that from him.

If he ever does, he’ll break him ― and Mike doesn’t want to do that.

“Okay.” he says, quietly, very quietly, because talking any louder will probably make it worse, and Richie’s shoulders start shaking again. “I won’t tell them.”

Later on, Mike will regret saying that.

Right now, he can’t bear to think of what happens next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, i'd like to say things get better from here but tHEY DO NOT. we're coming to the breaking point, to the inevitable clash of all the tension that's been building since the start and, man, that won't be pretty ;;
> 
> ON A HAPPY SIDE NOTE, I'm about to start chapter fifteen, and things will finally start falling into place \o
> 
> ps: i've noticed my timeline probably makes no sense to y'all, not in the movie and neither in the book, and i plan on explaining this later, ok? hANG IN THERE WITH ME q
> 
> you can come and scream at me @ [ trashmouthing](http://trashmouthing.tumblr.com/) on tumblr \o


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Whatever embarassing thing you hear here, promise me no one will ever know.”
> 
> The first impression the pleading has on Richie is the thought that there’s something wrong going on ― that maybe all the Losers saw with aunt Molly was just a façade, and Beverly’s still having a hard time at home. It makes him sober up of his peacefulness pretty fast, all jokes he could do fleeing from his mind when he stares at her, searching for signs of distress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha guess who forgot to update following the schedule yup that's me lol
> 
> to defend myself i'll admit i've been a bit lost in time and everything, with my tests and college and whatnot
> 
> SO to make up for it, I'm making a double update this fine (morning? evening? night? who knows ~~certainly not me~~ ) \o
> 
>  
> 
> **tw: implied/referenced self-harm, bruising and scarring**

Ben doesn’t think anyone else noticed the bruises.

It’s not that the Losers don’t pay attention, but rather that they pay _too much_ attention to Richie now that he’s been acting strangely, and, because of that, a few details end up escaping. Ben just notices it because, well, he happens to be at the right place in the right time.

“Hey, Haystack!” Richie’s voice carries its usual joy, and, if it weren’t for the dark bags under his eyes, it’d be easy to think things got back to normal. “Lend me a pen!”

And Ben does without really thinking about it, only looking up to make sure he won’t hit anyone. Richie winks at him and snatches the pen away in the blink of an eye ― that’s when Ben first sees it: the awful, painful looking bruises all over the other Loser’s hands and fingers.

He stares for so long that, after a few minutes scrambling with the pen, Richie ends up noticing, and giving him a confused look.

“What?” and he touches his own cheeks, giving Ben another chance to stare at the marks on his hands, raw red skin, a bit swollen, probably irritated. “Is there something on my face?”

“Your, uh.” Ben feels suddenly out of place, giving a nervous glance to the teacher in front of the class, making sure no one’s paying attention before turning to the other boy again. “Your hands.”

At first, Richie thinks it’s supposed to be a joke ― Ben knows it by the glint that appears in his eyes, by how his lips immediately turn upwards and he opens his mouth to say something. But then Richie notices he’s not smiling, Richie notices he’s not kidding, and he frowns a bit, his own smile dropping.

“What do you mean by ― Oh.” he sees what Ben’s talking about, and doesn’t seem really surprised. “This? Mom put something in the dinner that made me pop like a popcorn full of allergies.”

Part of Ben thinks he’s lying, not because he doesn’t trust Richie, but by how empty his words sound, how mechanic, as if Richie’s rehearsed it a million times to get it right. He doesn’t think the trashmouth of the Losers would ever lose a chance to make fun of something unexpected like that, even if it means making fun of himself. But then, again, maybe Ben just hasn’t been around for long enough to know at all, not like the others.

The thought makes him shakes his head, a bit upset.

“Are you taking any medicine for it?”

Something about what Ben’s just said makes the color drain from Richie’s face, but he doesn’t really think anything of it, because the other simply shrugs.

“Not really.” and, before Ben can say aything about how medicine is important for allergies ― specially the ones that have symptoms so agressive ―, Richie adds, a bit more quietly: “I don’t have it at home, so...”

That’s more than enough to have Ben avoiding keeping up the conversation, because he knows that Richie’s parents are a sore subject, and he doesn’t want to take the risk of upsetting him. Instead of saying something else, Ben hums to show he understood, and turns around to his own work again, only giving another glance at Richie’s hands before pushing it to the back of his mind.

And Ben could’ve forgotten about it, really. With tests and homework and things to do at home, Ben could’ve filled his head with something else and given Richie the space he seemed to need so much. But the bruises won’t heal ― whenever Richie moves, whenever he runs his fingers through his hair, whenever he gesticulates, the hurt skin is there to remember Ben of the incident.

He saw Beverly ask him about it _once,_ and the answer was exactly the same: something in the food, he doesn’t have meds at home, etcetera, etcetera. No one touched the subject again, they let him be. Ben could come to the conclusion that it’s a bad skin allergy, talk to Eddie and come up with a solution to help Richie, but that’s when the worst part comes into picture: he doesn’t really think it’s something accidental.

Richie’s never been one to wear long sleeves or shirts with high collar, but, recently, he’s been doing just that ― forget the hawaiian button-ups, the mismatched shorts, forget it all. He uses shirts and hoodies and sweaters whose sleeves are so big they outrun his hands, and his fingers are constantly playing on them, curling gently, pulling loose wires, holding it in place.

And then one day he comes to the barrens with a single long sweater, and the collar hangs loosely around his collarbones, showing purple and red marks all over scratches that look as if they’ve been _made,_ not out of an accident, but purposefully, as if Richie’s ― or _someone else_ ― pushed his fingers down his neck until his nails broke the skin, leaving awful bruises behind. But then Richie pushes the collar up, smiles his signature smile, and the chance to call him out on it is over.

It only brings Ben’s suspicious to a dangerous place, so close to reality he feels as if he’s done something wrong by ever _considering_ it ― but if that’s not it, then what? _What_ is going on?

Ben doesn’t think any of the bruises on Richie’s skin are unintentional.

 

“Richie, do you have any cigarettes?”

Beverly’s voice breaks the peaceful slumber the boy was in, and Richie opens his eyes tiredly to find the girl standing above him, blocking out the sun. It’s one of the rare days where the Losers are not all together, where they’re all scaterred around Derry doing whatever it is their parents or responsible ones told them to ― and Richie, of course, is the only one who’s completely free.

Not because his parents want, of course, but because his mother’s too drunk to notice him leaving, and because his father’s been working more these days, so he doesn’t come home early anymore. That leaves Richie free of pretty much anything they could come up with to force him to stay, so he decided to go to the park and, maybe, just maybe, put a bit of his sleep schedule in form. Too bad that it also didn’t work.

He stares at Beverly and her fiery hair for a moment, glad that at least she blocked out the light and his eyes don’t hurt as much as they would if she hadn’t done it.

“Uh, repeat that, please?” he rubs his eyes, feeling tired and sore all over, and sits on the grass, feeling the world move a bit around him. “Do I have what?”

“Cigarettes.” Beverly moves her hands nervously, and only now Richie notices she’s holding a few shopping bags, as if she’s just left the market. “Mine’s over.”

Richie still takes a moment to process it, and it’s only when Beverly stops fidgeting and gives him a mildly concerned look that he reacts, sleepy state forgotten, standing and shaking his head sadly.

“Sorry, ma lady.” he apologizes. “I ain’t got ‘nything with me.”

Well, at least he manages to make her smile a tiny bit.

“Don’t be like that.” Beverly gently punches his shoulder. “If you got no cigarettes, be a gentleman and help me carry this home.”

That’s one of the reasons why Richie likes so much to be around her: Beverly makes things easier. She doesn’t mind his crude humor, his Voices, she doesn’t mind he’s mostly tripping all over himself to try and find out where he should go or whom he should be. She simply _accepts_ ― she goes on with the flow, she plays with him, she’s straightforward when she thinks she has to be. Beverly never beats around the bush, and, most of times, even though her honesty is almost as crude as his humor, Richie likes to hear her speak up her mind.

“Sure, sure.”

He takes most of the bags, not because he doesn’t think Beverly can carry it herself ― she could carry it all _and_ carry him if she wanted, Richie doesn’t doubt it for a second ―, but because it’s always good to keep his hands busy, and, now that she asked for it, Richie notices it’s been a good time since he last smoked, and his fingers itch for it.

“Been busy lately?” Beverly notices it, and, understanding the feeling, tries to take his mind off it. “You don’t crack jokes like you did before, there are only two options: you ran out of options _or_ you don’t have time to think of worse ones anymore.”

“You hurt me.” Richie plays, putting a hand over his chest. “My feelings, lady, you shot ‘em down!”

Beverly laughs, and Richie finds himself smiling at her.

“Nah, I’m just tired, don’t worry.”

And Beverly doesn’t press him, because she knows what is like to feel certain things ― to have certain secrets ― you don’t want to share. Richie appreciates that, and they share a friendly silence all the way to her house, where Beverly turns around to face him, serious.

“Whatever embarassing thing you hear here, promise me no one will ever know.”

The first impression the pleading has on Richie is the thought that there’s something wrong going on ― that maybe all the Losers saw with aunt Molly was just a façade, and Beverly’s still having a hard time at home. It makes him sober up of his peacefulness pretty fast, all jokes he could do fleeing from his mind when he stares at her, searching for signs of distress.

But Beverly doesn’t look scared, nor worried, nothing bad. If anything, she looks kinda... _Shy?_ Richie’s confused.

“What?”

“Just promise.” Beverly squints her eyes. “P-r-o-m-i-s-e.”

Richie blinks.

“Uh ― cross my heart?”

He sounds as lost as he feels, but the words seem enough for Beverly. She nods, satisfied, and pushes the door open, announcing her arrival loudly right after.

“Aunt M, I’m home!”

There’s a music Richie doesn’t recognize blasting somewhere in the house, and Beverly shakes her head, smiling a bit to herself before guiding Richie to the kitchen. He follows her quietly, curious when she kicks off her shoes and starts humming along with the song.

“Let the bags on the counter, please.”

Richie does.

“Do you need help?”

“Nah. You can sit if you want.”

Richie wouldn’t feel comfortable doing so, then he doesn’t, but standing awkwardly around while Beverly does all the job doesn’t feel quite right either. He wanders a bit, allowing himself to take in the sight he hadn’t seen before, the details, the picture. Different from his, Beverly’s kitchen is full of color ― there are flowers at the window, curtains dotted with small animals, even the dishes are made of colorful glass, light shining through it, painting the cream walls like rainbow.

“Bevvie, darling, you forgot ― oh, hello there, Richie!”

Both Beverly and Richie look up to find Molly at the door, smiling warmly at them.

“I didn’t know you’d come.” Molly sees Beverly stuffing the food in the cabinets. “Do you need any help with that, darling?”

“I’m already finishing it, aunt.” Beverly offers her a smile, closing the cabinets and getting rid of the empty plastic bags. “Richie and I met up in my way back and he offered to help me.”

Richie didn’t exactly _offer_ it, but he doesn’t think it’d be smart to contrariate Beverly. He has to resist the urge to pretend to be someone else when smiling at the elderly woman.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, aunt Molly.”

She gives him a strange look that makes Richie break out in cold sweat. Has he done anything wrong? He barely even _spoke,_ shit, maybe she didn’t like him, after all. Richie swallows dry, even more so when Molly turns to Beverly ― but, this time, her face is one of confusion, not seriousness.

“I thought you said you’d tell me if you went on a date with one of the boys, Bevvie.” Beverly chokes on thin air, and Richie finds himself in the weirdest situation of his entire life ― counting the murderer clown ― when Molly turns to him, squinting her eyes just the tiniest bit. “What are your intentions with my niece, Mr. Tozier?”

Richie doesn’t know if he should laugh or if he should run ― he gives Beverly a slightly frightened look, and, thankfully, that seems enough to snap her out of her shocked state.

 _“Aunt M!”_ her shriek is the most ‘not Beverly’ thing Richie’s ever heard. His heart’s starting to make an awkward thing inside his chest. “He’s not ― we’re not ― Richie’s just a _friend!”_

If he weren’t frozen in place, not knowing how Molly will ― or would ― react to it, Richie could come up with something to make drama of, to joke about it. Beverly’s blushing, Richie himself can feel his cheeks warming up, and Molly looks from one to another with suspicion written all over her face.

“He came all dressed up for dinner.” she muses, and arches an eyebrow at the boy. “Are you trying to woo Bevvie?”

The need to laugh histerically is so strong Richie’s eyes tear up a bit when he fights it down, and his hands are already starting to shake. It’s a really bad moment to freak out, but it’s not like Richie can simply _stop it._

“Uh, no, I ―” he finds himself speechless, and it’s _horrible._ “Bev is just ― just a ―”

Sure, Beverly’s pretty and there’s no denying that ― Richie wouldn’t be able to say the contrary even if he wanted to. But she’s also one of his best friends, and probably the love of Bill’s life. Richie would never, _ever_ think of her that way.

“Friend.”

His voice fails him terribly, and Richie pushes the glasses up his nose with shaky hands. Beverly senses something’s wrong and immediately comes to his rescue, approaching and putting both hands on his shoulders.

“Aunt, you’re scaring him!” she shakes her head. “Don’t be silly. I’d never do anything behind your back, you know that!”

Molly’s face softens into guilt, and Richie would really like to say he _hears_ what she and Beverly talk about before the girl gently guides him and his trembling legs out, to sit at the doorstep. Richie doesn’t even has it in himself to try and say something, to joke about the situation and the awful idea of them being a couple, but he wishes he had, because then things wouldn’t be so _strange._

“Wanna pretend this never happened?”

Beverly’s voice’s lighthearted, and Richie knows she’s asking just to make sure he’s alright. He wants to tell her off, but he doesn’t want her to worry, so he swallows down the lump forming in his throat and offers her the best smile he manages, even though his lips are trembling at the corners.

“Sure.”

Beverly doesn’t ask, and Richie doesn’t tell.

Things are better off this way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~my beverie feelings are scattered everywhere, s H I T~~
> 
>  
> 
> come and scream at me @ [ trashmouthing](http://trashmouthing.tumblr.com/) on tumblr \o


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irrational anger and fear bloom inside Richie’s chest.  
> “What did you tell them?!” _what did you do, fuck, what did you do?!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **tw: implied/referenced alcohol abuse/alcoholism, mentioned underage smoking** (i can't think of anything else, but tread carefully anyway)

When his mother’s not drunk, Richie can almost believe she cares.

Her eyes are always sad when she’s sober ― Richie wouldn’t know why even if he asked, because she almost never talks when she’s like that, only watching him with dull, pained eyes. Richie doesn’t like when she does that, he really doesn’t, but he never tells her anything, afraid she’ll lash out at him, afraid she’ll get _angry._

Today is one of those days, when Richie comes into the kitchen during morning quietly, hoping not to find any of his parents, and his mother’s sitting at the table, staring at what they have for breakfast with a blank face ― honestly, they don’t have much. It’s just a bit of barely edible bread, half a bottle of milk and butter; nothing too different from what Richie’s been eating these days.

At first, he considers turning around and leaving, and the hunger be damned ― but then his stomach betrays him and makes an awkward loud noise, and Maggie turns to look at him. Richie freezes like a deer caught in headlights, frightened at first, fearing she’ll get furious for no reason like she usually does, but then he sees her posture, takes in her shrunk shoulders and the sad glance, and realization slowly dawns upon him.

Maggie’s sober. _Sober._ Richie’s almost as afraid of talking to her now as if he’d be if she were drunk ― he doesn’t really remember interacting with her while she was sober; he tends to avoid her either way if he has the chance to.

He’s not so lucky this time.

“Good morning, mom.” Richie tries, uncertain of his own words, and his voice is small, because he’s afraid of triggering one of her crisis ― it wouldn’t be the first time.

“Good morning, Rich.” she says, quietly, very quietly, and her voice sounds _strange_ to his ears ― she’s not yelling at him and she doesn’t sound angry, just sad, and it’s awful how uneasy it makes Richie feel. “Come here, sit with me.”

Richie does, not because he wants to, but because he’s scared of what she can do, of how she’ll react if he declines the offer. He sits close ― but not too close ― to avoid the possibility of angering her or setting her off. At first, silence is what reigns between them, Richie’s tense, and Maggie only stares at him, making anxiety pool at the pit of his stomach.

And then, almost too suddenly, she reaches out to touch his face ― Richie’s despair shoots up, because his nerves tell him she’ll hit him. But she doesn’t. She touches his face gently, his sunk cheeks, his cheekbones, his chin. Richie goes completely tense, fear forming a lump in his throat.

“Have you been eating, dear?” Maggie’s voice’s smooth, almost sweet, and it terrifies Richie more than it should, more than any scream or crisis ever did. “You look so skinny...”

If it weren’t for Wentworth _sometimes_ remembering to give Richie a bit of money for food ― or all the snacks the Losers don’t mind sharing ―, _of course_ Richie would be starving. He already doesn’t eat enough as it is, there’s no way to put in all the weight he should have; he’d eat enough for one or two days, and then starve for the rest of the week.

“It’s just ― uh ― I’m growing, mom.”

That’s a blatant lie ― Richie hasn’t grown not even half an inch since the last time he paid this any mind ―, but Maggie doesn’t seem to know that. She buys his lie without doubting it not even for a moment, and Richie almost feels _guilty._

“You’re growing too fast.” she sighs, and her hand drops. “I miss the times where you were still my baby.”

Even now Richie doesn’t understand how he survived that ― for as long as he can remember (and that’s _a lot),_ Maggie always drunk, Wentworth always got mad because of it, and both of them particularly _loved_ to ignore Richie all they could.

He preferred when they paid him no mind ― at least he didn’t get yelled at, not nearly as much as he is now. It wasn’t _okay,_ but at least it was better than this.

Maggie sighs. Richie feels himself getting more and more panicked at every minute that goes by.

“Take this. Buy yourself something nice.”

And then his mother offers him twenty dollars. _Twenty. Fucking. Dollars._ Richie’s heart’s already starting to betray him, beating awfully hard and awfully fast inside his ribcage. She has to be playing with him. It _needs_ to be a joke. Richie will try and accept it, she’ll laugh at his face and get mad that he thought he _deserves_ it, and then his father will know about this and things will get _worse._

“Mom, I ―” it’s getting harder to breath. Richie needs to _leave._ “I can’t, you ― you need ―”

“I don’t _need_ this money, Rich.” although a bit more fierce, her voice’s as soft as it was before. Maggie’s not angry. Richie wants to cry. “Take it. Use it with your friends if you want, just ― _take it,_ Rich.”

He does. His hands are shaking when he gently pushes the note from her fingers, almost too slowly, giving her time to change her mind and tell him off. Maggie doesn’t. There are tears forming in his eyes, and Richie thinks he’s had enough for today.

“I ― uh ― thank you, mother.” he swallows dry. “I need to go, I ― I’ll be late for school.”

That’s another blatant lie, but Maggie buys it just as she did before. Richie takes his chance to stand, ready to make a run for it, but nothing in his life is ever so simple.

“Richard.”

He stops. Closes his eyes. Breathes in, breathes out. His chest hurts a lot. When he turns around, Maggie motions for him to come closer. Richie does in slow, cautious steps. She reaches out for him again, and his heart skips a beat or two.

And then Maggie hugs him.

She _honest to god_ hugs him, wrapping both arms around his waist, pressing her head against his stomach and _holding_ him.

Richie goes very still, breath hitching, and stops moving completely. Maggie keeps him close for a few more seconds in her awkward one-sided hug before noticing her son’s unresponsive and freeing him. They stare at each other for a few moments, and Richie doesn’t know how to feel about their similarities ― they have the same eyes, the same hair, the same freckles dotted all over their faces.

It doesn’t feel nice knowing they look a lot like each other, but it doesn’t feel bad either. It’s just ― different. Strange.

“Take care, Richie.”

Richie nods, and leaves, and he doesn’t know _why_ it hurts so much.

 

(He uses the money to buy himself a few snacks and two packs of cigarettes ― Beverly’s favorites, that, after a few days without even _thinking_ about nicotine, don’t taste nearly as bitter as they did before. Richie has to control himself not to smoke more than one, even though his fingers itch for it, because he doesn’t know when will be the next time he’ll be able to buy more.

And, for a few hours, Richie believes things will be okay. He hangs out with the Losers, he smokes and he eats and he feels abnormally _nice._

Of course this naive illusion doesn’t get that far ― it’s shattered as soon as he comes home to find his mother drunk again and his parents fighting.

This time, they don’t notice him. They don’t turn on him, they don’t gang up on him, they don’t yell at each other to see who’ll be the first to yell at him. It almost seems that they can’t _see_ him, that they can’t _hear_ him, that they don’t _care._ And Richie should be relieved, he knows that. He should be relieved that they won’t fight him today, that they won’t blame him for things he didn’t do and ground him for things he didn’t say.

But he’s not. _He’s not._

Richie wants to cry. When his mother starts crying and his father won’t stop screaming at her, _Richie wants to cry._ He wants to come and interfere, to do _something._ But he doesn’t. He doesn’t because he’s afraid, because he’s scared, because he doesn’t want them to make him feel bad, not again, not today.

So Richie hides in the bathroom, and covers his ears, hoping it’ll be over soon. And he feels guilty, somehow ― as if it’s _his_ fault that they’re fighting again, as if he has any _guilt_ in it, even though he _didn’t do anything._

**They all float down here.**

**You’ll float down here.**

**We all float down here.**

**We all float down here.**

**We all** ―

“I won’t float.”

Richie doesn’t know if he’s talking to himself or the voice inside his head. He doesn’t even know if it’s _real,_ what the hell. But the voice stops, and Richie sniffles, relief flooding him.

“I won’t float.” tears gather at the corners of his eyes and slid down his cheeks, and he doesn’t have it in himself to even _try_ to stop them. “I won’t float. I ― I won’t ―”

The lump in his throat doesn’t let him say it again, a small and painful sob ripping through his body. Richie brings his knees close to his chest, burying his head between them and allowing himself to cry.

“I won’t float.” he tells himself, voice failing, eyes screwed shut. “I won’t float. I won’t.”

**Beep beep, Richie.**

 

Eddie knows Richie since they were seven.

They’ve been friends for over five years by now ― Eddie hated him at first. He hated Richie’s vocabulary, hated his jokes, his inability to be sensitive about certain things and, more than anything, he hated Richie’s total and utter lack of self-preservation. Richie _likes_ to do dumb shit ― he’s always been like that: as long as there’s someone looking at him, screw the consequences of whatever it is that he’s doing.

It was just after ― against his will ― befriending Richie that Eddie started noticing certain things he didn’t dwell on before. Richie _is,_ by nature, and hyperactive boy; he _needs_ to be doing something, anytime, anywhere, and not being able to causes him agony. He has no filter not because he doesn’t _care,_ but because, apparently, there’s no one to call him out on it at home ― they never talk about it, because Richie’s always been adamant on not letting any of the Losers meet his parents. That’s who he _is,_ and, if you pull certain things ― certain things that Eddie learned to recognize as a defence mechanism ―, you can see that Richie’s not a bad guy.

He cares about his friends. He looks out for them. His immediate answer to a hart situation may be drop an awful joke, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t do _anything_ to try and make things better. Eddie ― and all the other Losers ― knows he can count on Richie in any situation.

Knowing Trashmouth so well is one of the many reasons why Eddie’s so _worried._

Richie’s never been a quiet boy ― he _never_ shuts up. Even when they ‘beep’ him, it’s only a matter of seconds before Richie finds something else to talk ― or joke ― about. He’s not _calm,_ he’s not quiet, and _that’s how he’s been lately._ Eddie doesn’t _need_ to ‘beep’ him anymore ― Richie barely even _talks,_ and, when he does, it’s not in his loud, joyful tone from before. It’s just ― weaker. Quieter. He holds himself and talks _smoothly,_ slowly.

To say Eddie’s freaking out would be an understatement ― he’s _fucking losing his mind._ Something’s happened, something _bad,_ and Richie doesn’t want to tell them what it is; he doesn’t want to explain and he doesn’t accept help.

And the worst part of it is that Eddie has _no fucking clue_ about what’s going on. He has _no idea._ Not knowing makes him anxious, not knowing makes him _scared._ Eddie worries about his friends, he worries a lot, and most of time he can’t control that ― he can’t control it that he knows _a lot_ of things about certain symptoms, and what _causes_ them.

Richie’s always dizzy, now. He trips and he falls and he hurts himself a lot ― and he _laughs_ about it, as if it’s something _funny._ Eddie _noticed_ he can’t breath properly, his slow talk’s not _natural,_ and Richie’s pupils are always blown wide.

Eddie knows about two things that could’ve caused this: Richie’s high on medicine **_or_** he’s drinking himself drunk almost every day, both for a reason he doesn’t want to tell.

Eddie knows Richie’s never been a fan of meds.

 

They’re at the quarry and they’re waiting for Richie to show up.

It’s one of those days when they’re not too eager to do anything, where the wind blows cold even though the sun is warm on their skin. Stan’s birdwatching, enjoying the silence; Bill and Mike are throwing small rocks at the water, talking quietly about something Ben can’t hear; Beverly’s sprawled on the grass, resting, as beautiful as the first time Ben’s seen her. Eddie’s sitting at her side, and his expression gets worse at every second that goes by.

None of them talks about it, but Ben knows they’re all thinking of the same thing: the last time Richie disappeared like that, he showed up, freaked out and had a panic attack. He’s not the same ever since ― and Ben’s starting to suspect he might know _why._

The bruises. The scarring, the blue and purple dots all over his skin. The bones showing up, the lack of appetit, the _exhaustion._ Ben’s heart drops to his stomach, a sinking feeling installing itself inside him like a disease.

“Guys.” he calls, and his voice’s too loud, too strange even to his own ears.

All Losers ― all minus one ― turn to look at him. Ben wants to say he’s sorry, wants to plead them to forgive him for not telling anything before, but he doesn’t think it’d help at all. So he breathes in, deeply, and lets his shoulders drop tiredly.

“I need to tell you something.”

 

Richie didn’t mean to lose his track on time ― he’s so used to coming home and making a show to his parents, to pretend that he’ll pass the day on his room sleeping and doing homework (because _he’s still grounded,_ what the fuck), that today he _did_ end up sleeping. And now, obviously, he’s fucked, pedalling to the quarry as if his life depends on it, ignoring his upset stomach and the nausea and the stupid headache that makes his vision a bit blurry, his whole body cold.

When was the last time Richie took the painkillers? He doesn’t remember, and he doesn’t find it in himself to even _care._ He’s gone through almost three tablets of his father’s meds by now, and he knows he’ll be stupid if he keeps on taking them at this rhythm, because soon Wentworth will notice, and then there’ll be hell to pay.

He finally gets to the quarry, his lungs burning painfully and his face blazing hot from all the effort he put into getting here the fastest possible ― but he doesn’t want the Losers to see him like that, so he takes a moment to inspire, clean the sweat off his face and try a big, toothy smile before breathing out and leaving the bike behind to meet his friends.

And they’re expecting him ― not ‘expecting’ as in _doing something to kill time while waiting for Trashmouth to come,_ but as in _all of them are standing and staring at him like a bunch of creeps._ At first, Richie thinks they’re glaring at something behind him, but he quickly glances back and finds out that, nope, it’s Richie that they’re staring, there’s nothing behind him.

But he doesn’t remember doing or saying anything that could’ve made them angry at him, so he plays it off and keeps the smile, approaching them.

“What’s up with the mean ―”

“How long?”

Eddie’s voice’s cold as steel, and it’s not the first time Richie hears him talking like that, but it’s the first time Eddie sounds like that while _talking to him_ ― Richie’s smile immediately drops, confusion and a sense of iminent danger crawling onto his bones way too quickly.

“How long...?” he sounds as lost as he feels, and that seems to anger Eddie even further, red creeping upon his cheeks and neck and ears.

“Don’t play it dumb, Rich! It’s not funny anymore.” he approaches, and there’s so much _fury_ in his eyes that, even being a head taller, Richie takes a step back. He’s not fast enough, and Eddie grabs his arm, pushing down the sleeves, and, _fuck,_ this shit _hurts._ “How long?!”

 _Hell._ Richie’s arm’s a mess to look at ― the skin’s raw and still healing, too blue, too purple and _red_ for him to play it off and tell Eddie that he has no reason to worry. Eddie, who looks so angry and confused and, now, staring at the bruises, very much nauseated. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ Richie knows it’s not something nice to look at, but he feels _hurt._ He looks up, and the Losers are still _staring._

Bill looks on the verge of tears, eyes so big and honest and _pained._ Stan, if anything, looks upset, as if he was expecting to be wrong and _Richie disappointed him._ Mike’s so open, sadness and regret _emanating_ from him in waves. Beverly’s nearly as angry as Eddie, disappointed and upset, and, different from Bill, she doesn’t mind letting clear the tears rolling down her cheeks. Ben can’t look him in the eye, and his whole posture screams _guilty._

Irrational anger and _fear_ bloom inside Richie’s chest.

“What did you tell them?!” _what did you do, fuck, what did you do?!_

Richie wants to fight. He wants to scream and cry and tell them to **_stop._** They don’t know anything. _They don’t know._ They can’t do that ― they can’t make him _guilty._

**_“What did you do?!”_ **

It happens too fast. Richie’s trying to get to Ben ― because it’s _his fault_ ―, he’s feeling betrayed and hurt, and Eddie grabs his other arm to keep him away. And it’s too much. The hurt, the anger, the _pain_ ― it’s too much. Without really thinking about it ― without really thinking _at all_ ―, Richie turns to Eddie and pulls him away.

It was supposed to just make him step back, back off a bit, free Richie from his hold ― but Richie doesn’t measure his strenght, and ends up sending Eddie to the ground with a sickening ‘thud’.

There’s a terrible moment of silence where everyone just kind of _stares,_ unable to process and comprehend what’s just happened. Then, slowly, almost too slowly, Eddie sits, shock written all over his face, and his elbows are scrapped raw, blood slowly dripping to the ground.

Richie’s heart breaks.

_Think of all the germs that could’ve been there! Think of what his mother will say when she finds out! Think of **all the fucking germs,** Trashmouth!_

“Eds ―” Richie’s choked up, and, when Eddie looks at him, eyes glossy with tears, there’s no anger anymore.

Eddie’s _hurt._

_Richie hurt him._

“I’m sorry.”

Richie turns around and _runs._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think that's it? next chapter's not going to be nice, but, if it counts for something, it's the worst one we'll have here; after it, things start getting better.
> 
> see you next Monday! :D
> 
> come and scream at me @ [ trashmouthing](http://trashmouthing.tumblr.com/) on tumblr \o


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **AM I REAL ENOUGH FOR YOU NOW?**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo, bad news: I failed one of my classes and will have to do it again the next semester x-x
> 
> I'm thinking about posting all the chapters I have written, like, tomorrow, then, because I keep forgetting to update even when people remind me to ;; ~~@ anon hhi, thanks ♡ and i'm sorry ;;~~
> 
> anyway, I'll update twice today, because ~~i didn't update monday and~~ this chapter's kinda short ?  
>  hope you'll like it ;;
> 
>  **tw:** honestly, this chapter's all over the place, proceed with caution

Richie’s heart is a spot of hot blazing pain.

He can’t breath. He can’t _fucking breath,_ what the hell, _why can’t he breath._ His lungs burn, but Richie’s shivering so badly he almost can’t _walk._ Pain rises up from his legs to his brain, and Richie wants to _cry._ In all the rush, the despair to get away from his friend — probably _ex-friends_ after the stunt he pulled on them today — as fast as possible that he didn’t _think._

Richie rarely thinks. They wouldn’t have created the whole _‘Beep beep’_ thing if he did. They would ― they would’ve _talked_ to him instead of — instead of accusing him, if they at least thought he’d _hear._ And then Richie wouldn’t have ― wouldn’t have done — wouldn’t have hurt —

A painful sob rips through him like thunder, and the rest of oxygen that remained on his lungs is gone. Once Richie start crying, he can’t stop. _He can’t._ All the despair, the pain, _everything_ comes at once. His knees bend and Richie finds himself on the ground, concrete burning against the side of his cheek, his whole body convulsing.

The world’s spiralling around him, and Richie tastes blood in his mouth, despair choking him up like a rope around his neck. Richie can’t stop _crying._ He curls onto himself and the tears keep coming, the sobs ripping painfully through his chest, panic washing over him like poison.

Richie can’t hear his own heart — he can’t _feel_ it. He’s hyperaware of his surroundings, of the sun burning on his skin, of the rocks that scrapped his jeans and knees, but he _can’t feel,_ he can’t _breath,_ he can’t _fucking hear._

Richie cries. He cries until his chest feels like it’s going to explode, until his throat feels raw and sore, until his eyes hurt so much he can’t keep them _open._ But it’s not enough. It’s _never_ enough. It doesn’t stop hurting ― it only makes it _worse._

Pain blossoms through his chest, and Richie’s grip on reality starts to fade, red and black dots showing all over the place.

He curls tighter on himself, and unconsciousness envelops him.

 

Richie jolts awake when rain starts pouring down on him.

His whole body feels numb, but his arms sting like hell, and there’s blood on his fingers and nails and hands. At first he only stares, confused and completely lost as to _why_ — but then the memories crash down on him, knocking the air out of his lungs painfully fast.

The Losers. The bruises. _Eddie._

Richie sobs, and it causes him _pain._ He wants to go home and sleep until it’s gone or _don’t wake up at all._ Richie doesn’t think the Losers will forgive him this time — hell, he doesn’t think _Eddie_ will forgive him this time. He forgave all the mom jokes and Richie’s awful lack of sensibility, but this time — this time it’s _different._

He fucked up. He fucked up _badly._

But isn’t that what he _wanted?_ To make them _leave,_ to make them realize he _shouldn’t_ be welcomed between them, because Richie’s no good to anyone? In a certain way, Richie knows that this is _exactly_ what he wanted, but not ― not like _that._ Richie didn’t want to hurt anyone. He never _meant_ to hurt them, to hurt _Eddie._

Richie only wanted to be left alone. He wanted it to _stop hurting._ But it didn’t. It still hurts. _It still hurts,_ and it makes Richie want to cry his heart out _again._ He sniffles and rubs his eyes, ignoring how much it hurts and how awful his face will get — it’s raining, damnit. The rain can wash away the blood before he even _stands,_ there’s no need to worry about it.

He feels tired. And sick. And hurt. And sore. Richie’s hurting all over, and he wishes he could just lie here and _stay_ — but the rain’s too cold and his body’s starting to get rigid, and Richie knows it’ll do him no good to keep on... Keep on _what? Waiting?_ He’s not waiting. Things don’t happen to those who only wait — Richie’ll have to keep on _moving._

(He’s not really sure he _can_ move, but, well. Fuck it.)

Richie’s legs are shaking, and, in his first try, he ends up falling on his knees once again, scratching his hands on the pavement as the world spins around him. He feels bile rising up his throat, and his breath hitches; tears Richie didn’t even think would be _possible_ to exist gathering at the corner of his eyes, warm against his cheeks in contrast to the cold droplets of rain.

He breathes in. Breathes out. There’s fire in his lungs, consuming his chest from inside out, flames licking at the corners of his ribs, pain crossing through his bones and nerves awfully fast. Richie sucks in a painful intake of breath, closes his hands into fists and forces himself to stand again, weaker this time, tilting his head down when a bitter taste comes to his mouth, ready to throw up the little he ate this morning — but nothing comes, and, after a few seconds that could’ve been _hours_ and he wouldn’t even _know,_ the feeling goes away. Richie only tries his first step when the world gets a bit _steady_ around him, bracing himself when pain comes cutting through his muscles, a long, mournful whistle escaping from his lips.

But he doesn’t fall — not this time. Richie manages to get almost to the corner of the street before his body gives up on him again, and, this time, when he hits the ground, his hands are already starting to get numb. Cold’s crawling into his bones, slow and painful, and Richie’s eyelids are starting to get heavy.

And he stands again. And walks again. And falls again.

This time, Richie doesn’t stop.

 

At his front door, Richie’s teeth are chattering and he’s lost the feeling on his legs and hands altogether, arms crossed against his chest, hugging himself in a failed attempt to keep some warmth, fingertips already blue. It’s dark, but he has no way to know the time — Derry’s an awful place to live, where the dark show up sooner than it should and the light leaves them hanging, wainting, hoping.

Richie tries his best not to make too much noise, afraid of awakening anyone, but, when he pushes the doorknob and the door opens to his living room, he almost wishes he didn’t have come home at all. Bright light makes his eyes hurt, and the pain burning through his head makes Richie close them before entering, whining softly to himself.

 _Don’t soak mother’s carpet. Go straight to the bathroom, take care of this mess, do **something,** damnit._ But no matter how badly he tries to force his body to move, it doesn’t, too rigid and too pained from staying too much time under the freezing rain. Richie almost laughs at how pathetic he feels — at how pathetic he probably looks right now —, but the shivers running down his spine and shaking him to the bones make him decide against it; if he falls again now, he’ll probably not have enough force to move again for some time.

He takes a slow breath, rubbing his fingers gently against his arms to try and create some warmth before, finally, opening his eyes — and immediately wishing he didn’t.

**FLOAT WITH US.**

The room’s full of — _full_ — oh, god, _no. Not this time. Not again. No._

There are red balloons **everywhere.** Fucking _everywhere._

**DO YOU WANNA FLOAT WITH US?**

“... —” Richie’s voice fails him miserably, and he has to force it out, ignoring how much it hurts his throat. “Mom? D-Dad? _Mom?!”_

**I ♥ DERRY.**

Panic knocks him hard, fast. Richie stumbles his way to where the balloons lead, uncoordinated, eyes blown wide, heart beating desperately against his ribcage — thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump-thump —, threatening to rip through his chest and _fall._

**REAL ENOUGH FOR GEORGIE.**

He feels sick. The faster his heart beats, the closer to the flames Richie gets, the closer to the kitchen he comes, and tears are already rolling down his cheeks, dripping down to the floor — dip-dip, dip-dip-dip.

**BEEP BEEP, RICHIE.**

It’s red — red _everywhere._ Why is it so _red?_

**AM I REAL ENOUGH FOR YOU NOW?**

There’s an arm on the floor — an arm that connects to a body that’s way too familiar, with traces Richie sees everyday in the mirror, but it’s all wrong now, all wrong, blood dotted over the freckles, hair disheveled, skin so, so pale, eyes unnaturally white gazing at the ceiling, and righ there, at her side — right then and there —

**YOU DIE IF YOU TRY.**

Red and white and big — _no, no, NO —_

_They killed IT, they killed IT, THEY KILLED —_

**THEY ALL FLOAT DOWN HERE.**

And IT’s — IT’s _fucking eyes, IT’s **fucking teeth**_ — _GODDAMNIT_ —

Richie’s heart **_stops._**

IT _smiles_ at him.

“Hiya there, Richie!”

**YOU’LL FLOAT TOO.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we don't do sad, just angst, heart-breaking crushing despair
> 
> come and scream at me @ [ trashmouthing](http://trashmouthing.tumblr.com/) on tumblr \o


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie’s wild, panic-filled eyes stare at him with uncontained horror, with despair and pain, fingers gripping so tightly onto his arms it hurts, and the few words he mouths make Bill’s blood run cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo, I changed a few things about the Losers' background (as I did with many things throughout the story lol), I hope it doesn't get confusing; if it does, hit me up and I'll explain it to you! :D
> 
> have fun \o
> 
> **tw:** uh, the last scene's a bit tense, but I don't know exactly what to warn you about it. Just, take care, I guess?

The world’s ending outside Bill’s house, and Beverly’s cold.

She’s lying against Ben on the couch, the boy’s arm around her, fingers running gentle circles against her skin, his cheek pressed against her hair. Eddie’s on her other side, and Beverly’s got her fingers interlaced with his, squeezing gently. Mike, Bill and Stan are all on the carpet in front of them — Bill’s eyebrows furrowed, lips pressed tightly, staring ahead without _seeing;_ Stan’s eyes are cast down, and Mike’s got his arm around both of them, fingers playing with Stan’s hair in silence, thoughtful.

And they don’t talk. They don’t talk since Richie ran and left his bike behind, they haven’t shared _a single word_ since Bill approached Eddie, hands trembling, biting his lower lip so hard there was blood in it, and helped him get back up again. Honestly, Beverly _doesn’t even know_ how they got here, how they agreed to it, they just — **did.**

Richie’s bike is with theirs on the garage, and Beverly doesn’t know how to feel about it. _Hell,_ she doesn’t know how to feel about _the whole thing._ They all overreacted, _Richie_ overreacted, and now they’re _here,_ and Beverly’s _tired._

She’s tired of not talking and not hearing and _not sharing._ She knows she can’t judge — she has her own secrets to keep, too —, but she’s _hurt._ She feels betrayed, and guilty, and _hurt._ They could’ve tried _talking._ Talking _before_ things went to hell — talking before Richie freaked out, before _they_ freaked out, before things went to shit like they did.

Tears gather at the corners of Beverly’s eyes, and some of them escape, slowly sliding down her face. She doesn’t try to rub them away, she doesn’t try to fight them. Beverly doesn’t know how she _should_ feel — she doesn’t know if she has the right to be upset, when it wasn’t even _she_ the one who Richie pulled away, when he did _absolutely nothing_ to her, to hurt her.

_(He was drinking,_ a small voice inside her mind supplies. _Like dad did. You’ve seen what drunk people do. You’ve felt it. **Richie** was drinking.)_

Beverly doesn’t think she _could_ — or should, for all that matters — feel like that.

But she does.

She does.

 

Ben feels guilty.

Ben feels _stupidly_ guilty — even more so when he notices Beverly’s not the only one crying. There are tears dripping down Stan’s chin, too, so sadly and discreetely it’s hard to notice, and it’s the fifth or sixth time Eddie rubs his eyes, sniffling so quietly Ben almost can’t hear him over the sound of the rain out there.

Maybe he shouldn’t have told them what he was thinking. Maybe he should have kept it to himself. _Maybe he should’ve tried to talk with Richie first._ Hear him, talk to him, **understand.** But he didn’t. He didn’t, and they fought, and now they’re here, and everyone’s broken.

Ben doesn’t know how much of it it’s his guilt talking. He cares about the Losers, they’re his _friends,_ and he’d do anything for them — he’d do anything for _all_ of them. He didn’t want to wait and watch while Richie disappeared inside his clothes, the bright light inside his eyes dimming, his joy-filled voice being heard less and less as time passed. Ben _still doesn’t want that._

He just doesn’t know what to do. He never knew what to do. Ben sighs against Beverly’s hair, and holds her a little bit closer — there’s a lump forming in his throat, but he refuses to cry.

And he thinks he needs to fix this. He needs to fix this whole mess, somehow — he needs to make things alright again.

Ben just needs to think of _something._

 

Mike _should’ve done something._

He should’ve told them about the night they passed at Bill’s, he should’ve told them about Richie, about the bones protruding from his skin, the ribs under his pajamas, how light he was, how fragile he felt — Mike should’ve told them, he should’ve _fucking told them._

He didn’t. He didn’t tell, he didn’t help — Mike _did nothing._

And now Richie’s gone, now Eddie’s hurt, now things are messy and scattered everywhere, and _there’s no way to fix it._ He feels more guilty than anything, even more so than upset. Mike _doesn’t_ feel upset — he has no reason to.

If he’d just let Richie talk. If he’d given him enough space, if he’d made him feel _safe,_ then maybe — maybe Richie would’ve told him something. Maybe Richie would’ve reached out to him, to them. Maybe Richie would’ve felt like _belonging,_ like he could trust them, like _they would listen._

But he didn’t.

And it may not be entirely Mike’s fault — he can recognize that —, but _he’s guilty_ in it, because he had the chance to change everything right in his hands and _he let it slip through his fingers._

Richie wouldn’t have ran if he felt like he could trust them.

Mike _knows_ he wouldn’t.

 

Eddie’s trying so hard not to cry that it _hurts._

It’s not like the pain on his arms, like it ached when he put antiseptic all over hit, like it burned when he wrapped bandages around the scratches. It hurts _for real_ — the pain blooming inside his chest, crawling inside his veins, wrapping its deadly hands all over his nerves and heart and _crushing_ it’s not like anything Eddie’s ever felt before, and he doesn’t know how to _deal with it._

Eddie’s used to feeling suffocated. He’s used to the choked up feeling of not being able to breath, of not feeling the air in his lungs, of fighting the panic back and desperately gripping onto everything he can to keep himself _breathing,_ **awake.** He knows that. He _knows._

But he’s not used to the lump in his throat. To the warmness in his eyes, the ache deep within his bones, the _hurt_ gnawing at his guts and making him want to _crawl._ Eddie’s never felt like that before — not when he _thought_ he was sick, not when he _was_ really sick, not when Eddie thought he’d _die._

He knows Richie didn’t meant to hurt him. _He knows_ — has known Richie Tozier for enough years to be _sure_ he’d _never, ever_ lay a _finger_ in _any_ of his friends. It’s not _that_ the reason why he’s so upset — hell, if he _thought,_ if he _believed it even for a second,_ that Richie was _trying_ to hurt him, Eddie’d be sobbing his heart out by now, because Richie’s his _best friend,_ always has been and will probably always be.

Eddie’s so upset because of _himself._ Because of the situation he caused, because of the utter _terror_ he saw growing inside Richie’s eyes once reality dawned upon him, right after he pulled Eddie away. He’s upset because he doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t know why he did what he did, because he doesn’t know why he’s so _angry._

He’s upset at Richie? Sure, he’s upset. He’s upset because he thought Richie trusted him, because he thought that, after everything, they were _far_ away from keeping secrets from each other — but, more than that, he’s upset because he thought _he_ could be more patient, that _he_ could _wait_ for Richie to be _ready_ to tell him things.

Oh, well, now he knows he isn’t.

 

Stan rubs his face, wiping away the tears, and there’s an insistent tug of grief at the bottom of his heart, mixed with a feeling he doesn’t know how to name.

He doesn’t know why he’s here. He doesn’t know why he’s doing _nothing._ Richie’s out there, somewhere, _alone._ _He shouldn’t — couldn’t — be alone._ Not now. Not ever. They should stick to each other, the Losers, as they do since Stan can remember — and he remembers a lot.

They were a small group of three before Eddie came — Stan and Richie met at the synagogue when Richie got lost on his way home after going to the market, and Stan’s parents immediately took a liking to the very talkative, open-minded little boy who couldn’t stop talking, who was exactly the contrary to the very quiet, very polite Stan — both of them hit off well, despite their different personalities. The duo met Bill in their very first day at school, after the boy offered Richie a bite of his sandwich upon noticing he didn’t carry anything to eat with him (it became a ritual for them to share their snacks after that). Eddie was the fourth and very welcomed member, the one looking out for them the most, often the voice of reason when it came to stopping any of them from doing things that could’ve gotten them hurt or in trouble.

They were the Losers’ Club before they could even _notice_ — and they stuck to each other’s side it didn’t matter the situation. They were the firsts to whom Bill told he was going to have a little brother — they helped him (and Mr. Denbrough) paint the walls of Georgie’s room, helped him to choose the colors, to put the toys in all the right places. They were there when Eddie’s mother freaked out over him wanting to learn how to ride a bike, they taught him how to when he admited he really wanted, but she wouldn’t allow. They were there to stand up for Stan when Bowers first hit him — the very first day Richie got punched for mouth-off furiously at the bully, Bill had to carry both of them to the nurse’s office, and Eddie was so freaked out he _cried._

They’ve been together — through the ups and downs and fights and reconciliations — as a group for _almost seven years._ Then Ben and Beverly came, and, last but not least important, Mike, each on their own time, each with their own piece of soul to add a little more to the Losers.

They fought together. They fought each other. They got back together to help Beverly, to help Bill — to help themselves and the ones they cared about. And every time Stan considered stopping talking to them altogether, during and after everything, it _hurt._ Every time he thought about leaving, about avoiding them, about _running away,_ he realized he’ll never be able to do that.

Because Stan loves them — he loves them, and he wants them happy, he wants them well, he wants them _safe._ All of them. **All.**

(Richie’s still alone somewhere.)

_What have you done?_

 

Bill hears the frantic knocks at his door before anyone else does, and thinks it’s probably some poor soul who got caught in the rain and needs an umbrella or something like that.

“I’ll s-see w-who it — it is.” he says, to no one in special, and none of the Losers answers him before he leaves.

And, honestly, Bill doesn’t dwell on it. He doesn’t think about how erratic is the knocking, he doesn’t think that he can be wrong, but he _is_ — it’s not a simple stranger, it’s not some poor soul who got lost or caught in the rain, _it’s not._

It’s _Richie._

_Richie Fucking Tozier,_ soaked to the bones, looking like a living dead, who lunges at him in the exact moment the door’s open enough for him to do it.

“G-Guys!” fright makes Bill call out for the other Losers as Richie clings to him and sobs incomprehensive things, soaking wet, lips blue, pale white as a sheet, with so much strenght and shaking so much that the impact of it almost sends them to the floor. _“Guys!”_

Something about the raw _fear_ in his voice makes the Losers show up almost all at once in a stumbling mess, eyes wide, confused and afraid and _shocked._ But Bill doesn’t have time to think of them when he’s got Richie _completely freaking out_ in his arms, holding him tightly, _terrified._

“He’s — he’s panicking!” _Bill’s_ panicking, shit. “Do _something!”_

Worst thing to say, apparently. When the first Loser touches him, Richie starts screaming. _He fucking screams_ — the shrill cry of _terror_ that comes out of his mouth as he starts sobbing even _harder_ against Bill’s chest will haunt Bill’s nightmares for _months_ after everything’s over.

Bill stumbles back, trips over his own feet and _falls._ Richie falls with him, without letting go of Bill not even for a _second,_ still crying, still panicked, still _hurting._ Something unusually warm starts sliding down Bill’s arms, Richie’s soaking both of them, and a small glance at himself is more than enough to send Bill over the edge.

**_Is that blood?_ ** _Fuck. Fuck, fuck, **FUCK —**_

“Don’t t-touch him! _Don’t fucking touch him!”_

_Bill’s_ the one panicking for real this time, clutching Richie hard against his chest, giving them a wide-eyed stare. The Losers don’t try to approach again, and they’re all _shocked_ to say the _least_ — Eddie’s the first to snap out of it, and he starts barking orders at them as soon as he sees Richie’s shaking because he’s _fucking freezing._

“Bev, Stan, I need you to bring me all the blankets you can find! Ben, any towel, any pillow, bring them too! _GO!_ Mike, you come with me!”

And, as they scramble apart, running through Bill’s house to try and find as many things as they can, Bill wraps both arms and legs around Richie’s convulsing form, one hand resting at the base of his spine, the other holding his head from behind, hands touching Richie’s soaked hair, fingers curled gently.

Bill tries to soothe him the best he can, even though it’s useless — his stutter’s worse, he can barely say a fucking word, and _Richie’s not listening._ Richie’s not listening because he himself is trying to say something — something that comes out as bad as Bill’s stuttering, half-words and half-sobs and things that sound like apologies all mixed together.

And Bill’s _afraid._

Bill’s afraid because _he doesn’t know what to do._

So he holds tightly onto Richie, and pleads for him to breath, to follow his chest as it goes up and down, to listen to him — he pleads for him to hold on tight, because _Bill’s here, Bill’s here for him, Bill won’t let anything happen to him, please, Richie, please, breathe._

It doesn’t work — nothing is ever that easy on a Loser’s life —, but Richie stops screaming, and he doesn’t try to pull Bill away when Bill presses their foreheads together, holding onto him for dear life, keeping his voice as low and as steady as he manages, even though the stutter’s still there, even though the fear’s still there, the confusion, the shock.

“I — I’m w-with y-y-you, R-Richie.” he whispers, and tears stream down his face. “You — You d-d-don’t need to b-be afraid.”

Richie’s wild, panic-filled eyes stare at him with uncontained horror, with despair and pain, fingers gripping so tightly onto his arms it _hurts,_ and the few words he mouths make Bill’s blood run cold.

**_“I don’t want to float.”_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~nOICE~~ side note: when Bill's babbling and holding Richie and trying to calm him down, he calls him 'Georgie' too.
> 
> hope you liked it, see you tomorrow! ♡  
> come and scream at me @ [ trashmouthing](http://trashmouthing.tumblr.com/) on tumblr \o

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [you were there when times were at their darkest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12262824) by [booksameliad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksameliad/pseuds/booksameliad)




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